Breaking Away
by Lady Patriot
Summary: A marine deserts with the aid of a discontented sailor but is caught. In the confines of the dungeon, he finds an unexpected ally and manages to escape before his execution. Thus begins an adventure that takes him all over the Caribbean.
1. Desertion

Author's Notes: This is going to be a little bit different sort of work for me. I haven't done an age of sail story in awhile, let alone a PotC one. The chapters are going to start out somewhat short until I get into a good working rhythm. Hopefully I can get a good beta who knows the canon characters better than I do, so when they appear, they won't be too off.

Also, to my _Third Watch_ readers. Fear not! I love you dearly and I haven't forgotten or abandoned 'Away From You', nor have I left our ever-shrinking fandom. It's simply a serious lack of canon muse going on. Is A&E still showing reruns, does anyone know? That story deserves a happy end!

For you rabid fangirls, this is **not** your usual 'Go Jack/Pirates' story. Neither is it a 'Worship Scruffington!' story. For the record, I heartily dislike what the script writers did with the commodore's character - and, really, with the entire second move period - as I'm one of the distressingly rare Navy/Marine-shippers. This story, however, is set after the events of the first movie, with a slightly different take on what happened after Jack escaped. We shall open with a bit of action.

Disclaimer: None of the characters that appeared in the two _Pirates of the Caribbean_ movies are mine. I am making no profit from this story and intend no infringement upon copyrights. This story will be removed should Disney, et al, request it.

Now, the story!

* * *

How long had he endured snide comments and practical jokes from the other marines? Ever since he had first joined _Dauntless's _detachment of marines two years ago, at least. By all accounts he should be used to it by now, but part of him had stubbornly refused to harden against the rough treatment. The dangerous part of him remained vulnerable and constantly wounded by the words and actions of his supposed comrades. Even after the brief show of unity at that pirate Sparrow's botched hanging a week past, matters had not changed. What would it take, for those bastards to leave him be?

James Blackburn stared down at his bayonet, sharp and deadly, as it lay in his open palms. Even that day, the marines were cracking jokes at his expense. 'Jimmy the Twig' was a favourite and he heard it often. How he was coming to hate every marine in the garrison! They were all the same, small-minded and cruel. Nobody was spared from their mistreatment - not even, as one would have thought, fellow marines. The part that grated the hardest on James' nerves was the fact that he appeared to be the only one so tormented. Not even those incompetent bastards Murtogg and Mullroy received so many rough words or were the targets of harsh pranks.

Why him? It wasn't his fault that he was built like a willow branch, dammit. The Surreyman's hands clenched abruptly into fists, despite the bayonet he held. He gripped the keen-edged blade tightly and relished the sensation of warmth oozing from his palms. Those bastards thought they had the softest target on the island for their sick pleasure, but they had another thought coming, and wouldn't they be shocked by it!

"Oi, Twig, 'urry up there, yer due on the walltops."

He trembled with silent rage at the words, resenting every one of them. The marine who had spoken them was that insufferable git George Durham. That one was constantly harassing him. It seemed his favourite form of entertainment. James glanced down at the bayonet clenched in his hands, taking in the crimson that was oozing slowly along the shining steel. His own blood. Did he dare add the blood of another to it, to erase one of the sources of his pain?

"Din't ya 'ear me, I said..."

"I heared you, y'damned loud mouth bastard," James burst out, lifting his glare to meet Durham's. The older marine stared back in shock, never having heard the Surreyman talk back to anyone.

"Wot did ya call me, ya liddle weasel?"

James sprang to his feet, his already-bloodied bayonet in his hand. Durham's eyes snapped down to stare at the weapon, widening as he quickly realised the other marine's wild expression was the precursor to something he had only seconds to comprehend. His reflexes were what saved him. James leaped at the other marine, bayonet leading, His intended target had been Durham's chest, but the older man managed to sidestep and the razor-sharp blade sank into his shoulder instead.

"Marines to the guard-'ouse!" Durham roared, staggering back against the wall. James ducked the musket butt swinging his way and grabbed his own musket. His most pressing concern was now fleeing before the entire fort came running. Durham had pulled the bayonet from his shoulder and thrown it aside, running after the swifter marine into the courtyard. "Marines to the guard-'ouse, stop that man!"

He'd really done it now! James heard and saw marines charging out of nearly every possible building, drawn by Durham's bellowing. A musket cracked and a lead ball whipped past him. Well wasn't that lovely then! His instincts screamed that he return fire, but he was hopelessly in the open. The stables! That big stone building where all the horses of the fort were lodged. He could lose his pursuers quite quickly if he was able to steal a horse.

"Stop there! You treacherous little bastard!"

James heard himself begin to laugh. That was his corporal, that damn Irishman McIntyre. How many times had he gone to that stupid clod for help and been told to buck up? _Buck up this, Corporal!_ James wanted to shout. His long legs had given him a respectable lead on the pursuing marines and he stopped short, swinging around to face his new enemy. His fellow marines.

"Stuff you, Corporal!" James cried and fired quickly. If he had managed to hit anybody he wouldn't know, for he wheeled sharply and resumed his flight to the stables. More wild shots cracked through the air around him and it seemed as though every marine in the horde behind him was shouting. And there were officers appearing from the large stone building ahead of him. Why the hell did the bloody stables have to be clear across the fort?

"That's quite enough, marine," a Navy officer barked, his sword drawn and flashing toward the marine. James parried the blow with his musket and succeeded in knocking the officer aside. Nearly there! What was that bit about a twig again? The Surreyman thought wildly as he sprinted the last few yards to the stables. A horse would get him out of the thoroughly-hostile fort in a fine hurry.

There was a sizeable gathering of marines closing on the stables when he burst out through the Dutch doors, firmly a-saddle and hunched low over the animal's withers. Lead balls cracked and whizzed around him, but his former fellow marines were too hasty in compensating their aim for the galloping horse's speed. James's stolen mount raced across the dirt track leading to the main gate, which, he noted with a surge of elation, had been left entirely unguarded. What luck!

Out through the gate and down the road toward the town. At last! Freedom from that wretched life and those miserable sods. James whooped like a madman. He would be the last to admit that he had momentarily lost every semblance of control. Hearing that hated nickname had set off something within him that he had never known existed. But it didn't matter now. Nothing did. Nothing except he was free!

The marine patrols scattered throughout the town would have no idea what had taken place in the fort just yet... oh shite. James swore aloud as the echoing notes of a bugle rang through the afternoon air. A warning, a call-to-arms, to alert the patrols in town of danger. He was in for it now, but he was too far ahead of them for it to matter much at all. The docks were not far. James dropped the reins and ripped off his crossbelts, heaving them onto the street. His woolen scarlet coatee, black cravat, and stiff white leather collar were next, and he felt several pounds lighter. Cheering as loud as he could, the Surreyman gave his tri-corne a heave, watching it spiral into the gutter. With his uniform thus shed, he could not be recognised as a marine.

Now, to the docks, where he could find a way off this blasted island. But to what end? Turn pirate like that notorious Jack Sparrow? Not if he could help it! Honest work at sea, where he would not be bothered by the constraints and harshness of life in the marines. Or perhaps a trade ashore, working in the forests as his father did. Either way, this was a dream come true, certainly!


	2. The Best Laid Plains

Bit longer than the first one. Happy reading.

* * *

For once, he was not on the run from the marines or in the midst of a tavern-clearing brawl. He wasn't even in a tavern at all. Surprisingly enough, Samuel MacFarlane was hard at work, wielding a heavy mallet and balanced somewhat precariously on the peak of a rooftop. That he was gainfully employed had been a shock at first, but he had quickly warmed to the idea and proven an able worker. This particular side-gig paid relatively well, which had helped convince him to take it. Thus he was perched on the roof, hammering shingles into place.

Being as he was higher up than the rest of the work detail, he was the first to hear the distant rattle of musket fire echoing from the direction of the fort. Surprised and a little alarmed by the noise, the Scotsman paused in his work to stare toward the fort. What the devil could possibly be going on up there? Samuel shrugged when the musket fire came to an abrupt end and turned his attention back to his work. The action, or whatever it had been, was apparently over.

Then came the clear, distinct notes of a bugle. Samuel paused again, but this time he was tense. He recognised that call. Something had happened. A prisoner escape? The Scotsman's gaze shifted abruptly to a scarlet blur of motion as a patrol of marines the next street over broke into a run. Apparently it was something like a prisoner escape. Those lads were sure in a hurry anyway. Good luck with whatever was happening. He had work to do.

"What's doin', Scotchy?"

"Dunno. Somethin' t'do wiv the marines."

And that was about all he needed to say. Yardley went back to working a saw across a length of timber and Samuel applied his energy to driving nails into shingles. That afternoon, however, distractions appeared to crop up everywhere. A rider on the road leading from the fort caught his notice, not the least because the man appeared to be ripping off a scarlet coatee. Samuel dropped his mallet and sprang up, slipping a bit on the new shingles. Yardley and the bosun's mate in charge of the detail both shouted in surprise when the heavy mallet came crashing to the ground, as Samuel leaped from the rooftop to the neighbouring building, and from there to the next. He felt a good deal like a monkey as he went, working his way toward the road that led to the fort, as he was hoping to intercept the rider. Even from the distance at which he'd glimpsed the man, he recognised the fellow. Of course, considering how the man had been casting aside a red coat, he'd have to be a marine.

That stupid bastard! This wasn't how things were supposed to have gone! Blackburn was supposed to have waited until the week-end before making his run. Samuel cursed the marine heartily as he ran nimbly along the narrow peak of a roof. He was right on the edge of the road now and that sodding fool was just rounding the bend. _This is gonna hurt a bit, mate_, the Scotsman thought as he launched himself from the roof at the approaching rider. He had misjudged the distance, he realised as soon as his feet were clear of the wood. Shite. At least he hadn't missed by much. The horse let out a terrified whinny as the falling sailor's weight crashed into its flank, knocking the rider and animal hard to the dirt. Blackburn flailed blindly at Samuel, despite being pinned under the horse.

"Y'stoopid jack's arse!" Samuel burst out, cuffing the marine soundly alongside his head. "Now ya've done it!"

They had to get out of there. There'd be marines along this route soon. Samuel dragged Blackburn from under the floundering horse and gave him a quick once-over. Nothing appeared broken, the lad was fit to run. And he'd have to, by the approaching sounds of many boots on the road, "We gotta go, mate. Run yer stoopid arse t'the docks."

"Sod you - "

Samuel delivered a swift kick to the marine's back, spurring him on his way. "Git goin'!"

Thankfully it was enough to get that idiot moving. He didn't know the words to even begin to describe his anger at Blackburn. How much more stupid could that blackguard get? Samuel hadn't missed the glaringly obvious dark red stains on the former marine's hands. It wasn't enough that he had fled so openly - no, that daft idiot had had to attack somebody on his way too. Damn and bloody hell. Luck was with that marine, however. Samuel was on his side. Though that might not be the case for long, if those marines who were drawing closer managed to catch him. The Scotsman sprang up onto the now-standing horse and reined the animal around in a tight circle. Getting shot full of holes by a gang of furious and vengeful lobsterbacks wasn't something he wished to experience, but the chance to taunt the marines was too great to pass up. _You owe me for this one, you bastard!_

" 'Ey, ya damnable slobs, wot 'appened, didja get bested by one o' yer own?" Samuel yelled as the rather large column of marines charged into view. Muskets puffed smoke as several of the men fired on the run and the topman made himself laugh carelessly. " 'Ave t'do better'n that! Miserable sods, g'arn an' boil yer 'eads!"

It was time to turn tail and he did so gladly. He swung his legs out wide and delivered a mighty kick to the horse's flanks, spurring the terrified animal into a hand gallop. With any sort of luck, Blackburn had made it to the docks and gotten to the previously agreed-upon place. From there, they'd have to modify the original plan. Damn that bastard! If they were caught, it was the noose for both of them!

* * *

It wasn't enough that he had just been pushed off his horse, but that damn sailor had the nerve to kick him as well? James had half a mind to knock the bastard flat out, but the approaching sound of several squads spurred him to take flight. The last thing he wanted as to be caught by those bastards so soon after attacking two of them. They'd enjoy every blow of their vengeance if they had the chance to take it. The Surreyman raced along alley and street blindly, not sure where he was anymore. All he knew was that he need to reach the docks. That sailor, MacFarlane, had arranged for two berths aboard a ship bound for Africa, of all places. How he'd managed such a thing without arousing too much suspicion was beyond the former marine, but he was hardly in a hurry to raise any questions. What could he do now? All he had known for years was the life of a marine, in all its monotony and strictness. Granted, he had been assigned under a fairly lenient corporal, but that had brought on a whole mess of troubles that could have been avoided had he been placed in a different section. James put that thought out of his mind. Things had worked out splendidly, considering.

"Hey you there! Blackburn!"

Shite. Somehow, a squad had managed to pick up his trail, or at least stumble across him by pure chance. James grabbed up the nearest object to him and gave it a mighty heave toward the approaching marines. The empty water pail clattered harmlessly over the cobblestones as the marines stepped around it and pressed their pursuit.

_Run faster!_ The burning need to escape the scarlet-coated devils behind him lent him strength and speed. His lungs felt afire but he stretched his long legs out, slowly increasing his lead on the marines. So this was how it felt to run from the law! All the stories he had heard from men just back from a fruitless chase gained a spark of new life. This time, however he was the one fleeing. He ducked into a narrow alley and wove through the cluttered maze of discarded barrels and boxes. That would slow them up a bit for sure. James whipped around the corner at the end of the alley and gave a quick leap, grabbing for the overhanging eve. His grip was tenuous but he managed to tuck himself into the shadows of the sturdy wooden beams of the eve. From this side of a foot pursuit, James found it laughably easy to see why the marines frequently lost their quarry. Such a lack of imagination! Even a blind man could elude that lot.

Sure enough, the pursuing squad of marines barreled right past his hiding place without slowing down. James waited breathlessly for several long minutes before lowering himself to the ground. The marines were long gone, chasing nothing more than a shadow they thought was their quarry. So much the better for him. He was but a stone's throw from the docks now.

"Oi, Blackburn. Git yer stoopid English arse over 'ere."

Ah, yes. He'd nearly forgotten about MacFarlane. Drawing in deep, regular breaths to settle his lungs, James glowered at the sailor. If not for that bastard... he realised that he'd have been caught if MacFarlane hadn't been there. He had provided a quite timely distraction for the gang of marines coming down from the fort. The Surreyman thrust out his hand at the sailor. "Well-played, mate. Gave that lot the duck, din't we?"

MacFarlane's expression belied his wariness, but he accepted the proferred hand. "Aye. Now there's the wee problem of gettin' off this rock."

"What's the trouble there? Din't y'have somefin all worked out like?" James' contented grin slipped as he watched the Scotsman glance off to the side, almost guiltily. "What 'appened then?"

This couldn't be happening. He'd just eluded the formidable might of the marines, right in the very heart of their domain no less. MacFarlane better not have fouled things up. He waited impatiently, looking about occasionally to ensure that the street was clear of red-coated men. "Well?"

" 'Ere, stow that tone, or ya'll be on yer arse," the Scotsman growled. "We gots a way off this 'ere island, but not until tomorrow! It's yer bloody fault this's 'appened, see? Now shut yer gob and foller me."

So saying, MacFarlane stepped back onto the street, casting a careless glance in either direction to check for marines. Then he reached out behind him and grabbed the former marine's shirt, tugging him along. Although he was resentful of the action, James said nothing. Now they'd caught up with each other, he was in no hurry to lose sight of the sailor again. Thankfully, nobody appaeared to consider the pair unusual as they ran through an alley and then down the crowded lane that ran along the waterfront. Things were going rather well now, it seemed.

Suddenly, MacFarlane skidded to a halt, nearly ploughing into the man in front of him. James banged into him from behind, unable to stop as quickly, cursing as he stumbled. The sailor was quick to clamp his hand over James' mouth and drag him toward the nearest cover. _Now_ what? James nearly drew back to swing at MacFarlane when the sailor abruptly shoved him into a wall. Weren't they supposed to be getting aboard a ship? Apparently that plan had changed. More fool he for trusting that damn Scotsman!

Starting to gag with the sailor's dirty hand clamped over his mouth, James shoved the man away. That was one thing he had liked about the marines. The common sailors were unwashed and unkempt, while it was a strictly-enforced practise for the marines to shave and wash daily. Thank God for _that_. "What the sodding devil is wrong _now_?"

To his surprise, the sailor gave him a sharp cuff along the side of his head and pushed him back toward the half-open door of a tavern. "Din't they teach ya to shut yer gob in the marines?" MacFarlane shot a quick glance over his shoulder. "Ya din't set me up, did ya?"

What? James again shoved the sailor aside, craning his neck to see what the hell MacFarlane was going on about. He drew his head back quickly when he spotted the scarlet coatees on the dock. Shite. Those bastards had somehow figured them out. But how? James hadn't told a soul of his plans... his thin face paled. That bastard Jenkins! He'd been hanging about the tavern when James had met up with MacFarlane that night. He had probably overheard their conversation. Damn it all.

"Do I look that stoopid?" The former marine demanded indignantly. "Course I din't!" The very thought that he would turn in the one who was helping him get off this bloody island was insulting in the highest degree. How MacFarlane could possibly think that _he_ might have set him up was outrageous. "It's me own neck much's yours!"

MacFarlane glared back at him, his furious expression slipping slowly. At length, the sailor looked away, his shoulders slumping. In defeat? Most likely. He had done all the leg-work thus far anyway, while James had done his best not to make a mess of it all. It appeared as though he'd failed in that, certainly! The former marine scrubbed both hands over his face wearily, feeling hopelessly stupid.

"What now?"

"Like I'm gonna know that!" MacFarlane snarled, stalking toward the door only to stop abruptly and spin back toward James. The sailor looked him over thoroughly and then sighed. "Yer gonna 'ave to get new clothes, 'fore we does anythin'. Even wivvout yer coatee..." His voice trailed off, but his meaning was clear. James looked down at his white shirt and breeches, and black spatterdashes. He did stand out a bit more than the average townsman did, even though he had abandoned his scarlet coatee and white crossbelts.

"Where from?" James asked, sinking down into the nearest chair. This whole plan, at first so simple and straightforward, had quickly spiralled out of control. What were they to do now? With those damn marines standing watch on the dock, waiting for them, there was no chance of escape. _This is how it feels to be trapped_, the Surreyman thought miserably. Before long, the patrols combing town for him would find him here, and he would be dragged away to the dungeon, entirely at the non-existent mercy of his former comrades. It was likely he would die from the 'falls' and 'accidents' well before he made that last walk to the gallows.

And what would happen to MacFarlane? The man had never been happy in the Navy, but neither were many sailors who had been the victims of the press gangs. He would probably hang as well, for helping James in his failed desertion attempt. At least then he would be free, although not in the way he had wanted. Then again, James was fairly sure that neither of them were keen on the idea of hanging. That was not the sort of freedom he had in mind.

"Stay 'ere and keep outta sight," MacFarlane snapped suddenly and James gaped at him. He wasn't going to leave him there, was he? What could he possibly have in mind that was so important? The sailor was gone through the door before James could open his mouth to question his intentions and the former marine slumped back in the chair in angry defeat. That was it, then. The marines would come searching along this street before long and they'd discover him without difficulty. At least MacFarlane knew when to cut out and save his own neck. Literally.

Abruptly, James stood up and stomped toward the door. Like hell he was going to wait for that impudent sailor to turn him in! Better to take to his heels while he still could and hope for the best. And if he happened to be spotted, well... he certainly wasn't going to go down without a fight! He grabbed a heavy cloak that hung from a peg near the door and wrapped it around his thin frame, neatly covering his white shirt. Chancing a quick glance toward the dock, he saw the marines still present there, although plainly growing restless. _Too bad for you lads!_ James thought as he strode in the opposite direction, toward the road that led out of town. He'd take his chances on his own.


	3. The Chase

Have I lost everybody already? Things are picking up rather quickly now.

* * *

When marines abandoned their posts on the walltops and throughout the fort, rushing in a shouting mass toward the guardhouse, Colour-Sergeant Robert Crawford had been lounging in the small sergeants' mess, his feet propped up on the table. Blue smoke from his pipe swirled toward the rough-hewn ceiling and he sipped occasionally from a bottle of brandy. Sergeant Branning had been able to stand being in the smoke-hazy mess for a mere five minutes before rushing out coughing. Crawford had only laughed at his friend's intolerance for the sweet-smelling tobacco smoke. So much the better for him, he thought. More space and peace in which he could relax. 

Then, as always, something had happened to disturb his peace. Voices erupted in the corridor outside the mess and many feet could be heard running past the door. The crackle of musket fire in the courtyard hurried his movements. What the devil was going on out there? Crawford's shoes thudded to the floor as he snuffed out his pipe with his thumb. He left the pipe on the table as he grabbed his hat and a spare musket.

"What the hell's goin' on 'round here?" Crawford bellowed, grabbing the nearest marine as he was dashing past. The marine stared wild-eyed at him and Crawford realised it was one of Corporal Jones' lads. "What is it, Gallagher?"

"It's Blackburn, Colour-Sarn't. He's done in Durham an' Sarn't Myles!"

_That_ certainly got Crawford's attention. He shoved Gallagher aside and sprinted toward the guardhouse. There were marines everywhere in the courtyard, stampeding after the errant marine Blackburn. Half a dozen marines were clustered around a figure sprawled in the dirt and Crawford stared at the crimson staining the dust. That treacherous, murderous bastard! He quickly checked his musket before charging after the roaring crowd of marines chasing Blackburn toward the stables.

The stables! If Blackburn managed to get a horse, he could easily escape the pursuing marines. Crawford wheeled about, shouting for the nearest marines to follow him. Nobody was guarding the main gate, leaving it standing open. They had to get the heavy wooden gates shut if they wanted to prevent Blackburn from getting away. A thunder of hooves and a choking cloud of dust swiftly overtook and surpassed the sprinting marines and Crawford roared obscenities at the rapidly disappearing horse and rider. He wasted little time in snapping out orders and the garrison's bugler was already moistening his lips in preparation to call Alarm, To Arms. The crisp, clear notes of the well-polished bugle rang out in the afternoon air, echoing over the town. Excellent! The patrols scattered through the town would know that something was wrong and return to the fort at a run. Blackburn stood no chance.

Crawford ran for the stables, thinking suddenly of something that Corporal McIntyre had told him, which he'd first heard from Private Jenkins. If it was for real... a patrol had to be sent to the docks immediately. The corporal had a horse saddled and rode immediately for the road, his squad sprinting along behind him, doing their best to keep up with the galloping horse but gradually falling behind. Providing what Jenkins had said was true, Blackburn would head straight for the docks. Where better to catch the bastard? A discarded scarlet coatee and white crossbelts marked Blackburn's trail. Crawford kicked his horse hard, even though the animal was already galloping to its limit. He _had_ catch that damn marine. The man needed to be hung, if for no other reason than he had attacked two fellow marines. He reined the horse down an alley, taking a shortcut to the waterfront. If he was lucky, he could catch Corporal Hancock's lads before they reached the road. They'd post on the dock of the ship Blackburn was supposed to take refuge on and intercept him there.

Fortunately, Hancock and his squad were just coming around the corner toward him as he slowed his horse to a canter. Crawford drew rein and waved the corporal over. "Hancock, get yer boys down to the Number Four dock, post a guard round the whaler _Northwind_. Grab Blackburn soon's he sets foot on that dock."

Hancock nodded sharply and barked out the command to his squad, as Crawford spurred his horse on. He intended to gather as many marines as he could find and direct them on a thorough search of the town. That treacherous Surreyman wasn't going to get away, not if Colour-Sergeant Robert Crawford had anything to do with it!

"Colour-Sergeant!"

The shouted warning came half a second before a brick came flying out of nowhere, It was hard to know where it had come from, but Crawford knew very well where it hit him. Square on the side of the head, knocking him solidly from the saddle. The Colour-Sergeant crashed to the ground, his sword and musket clattering around him. Other marines were pounding toward him to help him up, but the brick-thrower wasn't finished with his task. More heavy bricks sailed through the air, felling marines with startled and pained yelps. Crawford pushed himself off the cobblestoned street, his head throbbing and a warm sensation flowing freely over his ear. The Colour-Sergeant fumbled for his musket, his temper beginning to boil.

He spied the brick-thrower perched on a nearby roof, hurling down stones and bricks with a gleeful smile smeared on his face. Crawford steadied himself with his left elbow and levelled his musket on the brick-thrower, a task made frustratingly difficult due to the waves of dizziness crashing over him. Sucking in a breath and holding it, the Colour-Sergeant managed to steady his aim long enough to squeeze the trigger. The shot cracked through the air and the brick-thrower screamed as he toppled from the rooftop.

Thank God for the relief from the hail of bricks. The marines picked themselves up off the ground and checked on their wounded mates. Crawford staggered to his feet, clumsily reloading his musket. Did Blackburn have accomplises? He had to have, the brick-thrower's appearance was too well-timed to be a coincidence. A marine reached out to help steady the Colour-Sergeant and Crawford nodded gratefully at the man.

"Get down to the Number Four dock and help Hancock's lads," Crawford rasped at the squad's corporal, a round-faced Hampshire native called Johnson. "And get me that horse!"

* * *

Things were not going quite according to plan. First, that idiot Blackburn had acted too soon, then the marines had appeared on the very dock that was the way to their ship. At least the man Samuel had paid to heave bricks at the marines had done his job. The Scotsman was nearby when the man fell dead from his rooftop perch, saddened only by the fact that he had not done more damage. No matter. The marine wearing the red sash was a dangerous one, Samuel decided. He would have to be dealt with. A well-aimed brick had struck the marine in the side of the head and failed to put him out of action. Other means would be required. 

"Get down to the Number Four dock and help Hancock's lads. And get me that horse!"

He knew that voice. That blustering Colour-Sergeant that Blackburn was always complaining about. Samuel used the confusion to slip away, thinking how best to further distract the marines. It had to be something to draw away the squad watching the whaler. Something like... a foot pursuit. He knew enough ne'er-do-wells that he was sure he could convince somebody to pull off a mock crime and attract the attention of the marines. The uninjured red-coats barrelled past him without a second glance, making their way toward the docks. Bad, very bad. He had to stop them somehow. But how, without risking getting arrested himself? Or ending up like the luckless brick-thrower. Samuel glared at the marines' backs, running out of ideas as to how to stop the bastards. The rattle of their muskets as they ran suddenly gave him an idea.

Fire. Fire was the most feared thing to a sailor, and by extension, a marine. Something that abruptly burst into flame would certainly draw the immediate notice of every marine in town. Samuel looked around keenly for a potential candidate for burning, anything that might easily catch flame. Ah! A discarded bundle of rags lying near a doorstep. He scooped the bundle up and walked as quickly as he dared toward a man bearing a lit lantern.

"Beg pardon, me ol' mate, but per'aps I might borrow yer lantern for a minute?" Samuel asked, even as he snatched the lantern from the man's hands and sprinted after the marines, ignoring the fellow's angry shouts. He stuffed the rags into the lantern, laughing with delight and relief when they began to burn. Now to set a non-essential bit of property alight. That empty cart would do quite nicely. Samuel heaved the heavily smoking lantern into the cart and ran for his life.

Things were looking up a bit now, he thought as he dodged through the crowds. Not even that daft git Blackburn had been able to completely ruin Samuel's carefully worked-out plan. The two of them would have words about _that_ when he returned to the tavern, and Blackburn was not going to enjoy it one bit. All he had to do in the meantime was wait for the marines to come running to deal with the merrily blazing drayman's cart and then -

Boom.

That wasn't supposed to happen! Samuel threw himself down out of instinct, feeling the wind of the explosion whip around him. Hadn't that cart been empty? He hadn't seen anything in it. Apparently something very potent had been there. Gunpowder most likely. Well, that was an unexpected aid to his plan. The marines would come running to investigate for sure, now. Best to get out of there, retrieve Blackburn, and get aboard the whaler. Surprisingly, he was able to slip past the marines stampeding toward the burning wreckage of the drayman's cart without difficulty. Of course, they were preoccupied by the flames licking along the cart's skeleton. Samuel slowed his pace to a casual walk as the squad that had been standing guard on the dock rushed past him. Excellent, they were in the clear.

"Oi, Blackburn, let's - "

The tavern was empty when he entered and he stopped in midsentence, staring about in shock. Where had the former marine gone? Had he been discovered and arrested? Very, _very_ bad. All his efforts would be for nothing if that lunatic had gotten himself caught. And if he spilled out the entire story... Samuel had to get off the island immediately, if he wanted to avoid the noose.

"You there, sailor!"

It was that Colour-Sergeant, back astride his horse, riding toward him with a dangerous gleam in his eye. Samuel stopped to prevent the man from being more suspicious than he probably already was. "Aye, sar? Wot c'n I do fer ya?"

"What's yer name?"

Shite. That meant this marine knew about the plan, at least in part. Samuel squinted up at the man, doing his best to appear dumb. "Name, sar? Why it's Joe Matheson, sar." Wouldn't Matheson the boatswain get a shock when he found out that one of his sailors had masqueraded as him! Especially by one of the most notorious troublemakers aboard _Dauntless_. How badly would things go for him if he returned to that ship amid rumours of that effect? Another trip to the grating, at least. Samuel was in no hurry for that. Three was plenty.

"Matheson. Know some lad called MacFarlane?"

Double shite. They did know. How to get out of this mess alive? The Scotsman shook his head at the marine, praying that his expression didn't betray his inner terror. Hanging was the one thing he feared the most and today it seemed as though he was coming dangerously close to earning that one-way walk to the gallows. Damn that Blackburn! The idiot Englishman was too stupid for his own good, and others were likely to die for it.

"No sar. I don't."

The Colour-Sergeant huffed and Samuel prayed fiercely that the man took the lie as truth. _Please, mate, just shurrup and ride on!_ It was the best thing the marine could do, for a multitude of reasons. There was no way that Samuel was going to hang, not for any man. He'd knock that marine from his horse and slash his throat if the man made any move to summon other red-coats or attempt to arrest the sailor. His freedom was the only thing he had left and he would do whatever he had to do to keep it. Fortunately for both of them, the marine chose to accept the lie and spurred his horse forward without another word. Letting out a relieved breath, Samuel crossed himself quickly. That had been far too close for his liking. With that crisis averted, all he had to do was find that bumbling fool Blackburn, solidly box his ears, and drag him to the waiting whaler. Their welcome in Port Royal had been overstayed.


	4. Caught

As ever, thank you to those who have reviewed. Your comments are appreciated.

James is caught. Short chapter.

* * *

The marine patrols got noticeably fewer as one got deeper into town and James found that walking down this street and that was quite easy. He had made it away from the watefront without incident. There was little to fear now, as long as he stayed out of sight. If he was careful, the uproar following his departure from the fort would die down and things would return to their normal. unhurried pace, allowing him to move through town that much more freely. His purloined cloak felt like it weighed more than he did and he decided that his first task was to acquire more suitable clothes. Something sailor-like. He couldn't very well get aboard that ship dressed like a marine grossly out of uniform! James slowed his stride and began taking careful stock of his surroundings, searching for bits of clothing carelessly left about. There had to be something... ah, some trousers, at least. The Surreyman stuffed the trousers into the folds of his cloak and walked on.

He was just reaching for a grey shirt when the air trembled with the force of an explosion. A boom echoed through the streets and alleys and he froze, staring toward the source of the blast. What was going on down on the waterfront? Despite his fear of being caught, it would far less suspicious if he ran toward the docks rather than away. But he had to get out of what was left of his uniform, or he'd be spotted for sure. James checked that he was alone in the narrow space between two houses and stripped off his shirt, breeches, and spatterdashes, exchanging them for the loose shirt and trousers he had stolen. He left his shoes on the doorstep of the nearest house as he trotted back toward the waterfront, glad for all those years of running barefoot through the forest. It had hardened his feet and a mere two years as a marine had helped toughen the leathery skin even more. Those damn shoes...

A drayman's cart was burning fiercely and marines were only just arriving with over-filled buckets of water. Townspeople were rushing about with buckets and basins of their own, doing their best to douse the flames before anything else caught fire. James felt himself grinning hugely at the sight. That could only be MacFarlane's work. The wily Scotsman certainly knew how to create a spectacle! _Brilliantly played, mate._ What better way to distract those damned red-coats.

James' eyes fell onto a marine on horseback and the two men locked gazes. Shite, it was Colour-Sergeant Crawford. Recognition lit up the gruff older marine's face and he nudged his horse forward through the crowd, a determined expression coming onto face. The drying blood that was smeared across Crawford's head and cheek made him look all the more menacing. James swallowed nervously and looked about for a means of escape.

"Blackburn!" Crawford bellowed and every marine involved in the fire-fighting effort snapped his gaze toward the Surreyman. Shite! Shite! Run away! _Run!_ James backed hurriedly out of the press of bodies, sensing scarlet-coateed men closing in around him. He had to get out of there. A marine charged out of the crowd toward him, bayonet-tipped musket levelled to impale him. James sidestepped and swung his fist at the marine, a corporal, and knocked the man sprawling onto the street. This was it, his chance to create enough of a distraction to made another hair's-breadth escape. Grabbing the corporal's musket, he struck the man with the weapon's butt, knocking him back down. There were furious shouts drawing closer to him as other marines shoved roughly through the crowd. Take his crossbelts and sword, he'd need the cartouche if he intended to make any sort of stand. There wasn't time to buckle on the sword, just grab it and run.

"You bastard!" Of all people to emerge from the crowd first, it had to be one of the men from his old squad. The uppity bastard Frazier. James saw the musket come sharply to Frazier's shoulder and reacted in the only way he knew. Drop what he was carrying, snap the musket's hammer back, jerk it to his shoulder, pull the trigger. He had always been one of the fastest shots in the garrison. Frazier fell slowly, at least it appeared that way to James. It was one thing to fire blindly while on the run, but quite another to stare down the barrel of another musket and shoot the marine holding it down. Face to face. Run! James shook himself. Now wasn't the time to stand about in shock. The others would be on the scene in seconds, drawn by the sound of the shot like wolves.

" 'E's done Frazier in!"

The angry cry spawned a roar of obscenities and rage, spurring James ever faster. It was hard to run with his arms laden with a musket, cartouche, and sword, but he was fleeing for his very life. That lent him speed. It never occurred to him that he was running toward the dock that had been his original destination, until that damnable Colour-Sergeant Crawford appeared in front of him, his horse snorting eagerly and sword drawn. Was it even possible for this day to get any worse?

"Hangin' ain't good enough fer you, Blackburn," Crawford snarled, jabbing his sword at James' chest. "After what y've done? It's the firin' squad!"

As if that made the prospect of being caught any more palatable! James wished his musket was loaded and primed to fire. He could wipe the smug grin off that bastard's face if it was. He had the sword, however much good that would do him. Behind him, he sensed the gang of marines approaching with muskets pointed at his back. He was well and truly caught this time, wasn't he?

"Think you've got me, eh?" James sneered and hoped he sounded more surly than he felt. It was hard to feel anything but terrified when one was surrounded by furious marines with primed muskets. Still, the bravado at least made him look fearless. "Bunch of bullyin' sods, the lot of you. Ain't worth the five guinea bounty wot was given to you!"

"Ya kilt Sarn't Myles and Frazier!" A marine shouted furiously.

"Aye, and? They got in the way. S'like the lot of you!" The Surreyman set down the musket and cartouche and buckled on the sword. Corporal McDavies' sword, he realised suddenly. Just as well. That one was a blithering fool. Bending slowly, James picked up the two items and glared up at Crawford. "So, wot's the charge then, you blackguard? Realisin' wot a load of bollocks His Majesty's Marines really is?"

Crawford's face purpled. "That's quite enough from you, you arrogant young traitor! Branning, get this piece of filth clapped in irons. I don't care what happens between here and the dungeon, but make sure there's enough left to be shot on the morrow."

Inwardly, James felt defeated and terrified. What now? Where was MacFarlane when he needed another rescue? And more importantly, why hadn't he just stayed in that damn tavern?


	5. Down, But Not Out

Glad y'all like this so far. More to come, you can be sure of that!

* * *

The stifling damp air of the lower dungeon seemed to suck the breath from him as he was carried down the last flight of old stone steps. It had been a long, long journey from the docks to the fort and he had 'fallen', 'tripped', and 'stumbled' more times than he could count. As a result, he couldn't summon the strength or energy to walk and had to be carried like a useless sack of potatoes over a marine's shoulder. Every part of his body felt afire from the freely-applied musket butts, fists, and shoes. Damn those marines. It seemed like every man in the garrison had turned up to deliver a hard blow or two. Of course, he hadn't gone down without a fight. As Sergeant Branning had come up behind him with the shackles, James had driven the musket butt square into the man's stomach, knocking him handily to the ground. The other marines had rushed him at once, swinging their own muskets vengefully. For a few glorious minutes, James held them off with musket first, then sword, before the sheer weight of numbers had won out.

"Get in there, ya sorry 'scuse fer a man," Corporal McDavies snarled, heaving the half-conscious Surreyman into the cell. One last hard thump from a musket butt, then the heavy iron door clanged shut and the keys rattled in the lock. The four marines who had brought him down to this dark, stinking version of hell tramped away, back to the world above. James cursed them, albeit silently, as it hurt somewhat to speak. It hurt to move and breathe, really. He slumped down onto the dirty straw and closed his eyes. Less than a day to live, but somehow that knowledge was not as dreadful as he had expected it to be. In fact, he was beginning to look forward to staring down the firing squad the next morning and counting the seconds until he would truly be free.

What had happened to MacFarlane? James suddenly wondered. Probably hiding somewhere, waiting for the right moment to make good his own escape. _Best of luck to you, mate. Watch for the marines._ An ironic chuckle sent spasms of pain through his thin body, but it felt good to have something to laugh at. This entire venture had been quite an experience, at the very least. Even though it had ultimately proven futile. The Surreyman coughed and spat out a tooth. The surprises just kept coming, didn't they?

"They don't like ya much, do they?"

James had to roll his entire body over to see who had spoken. It hurt too much to sit up. It was a very scruffy-looking man with what appeared to be only one eye, leaning against the bars of the adjoining cell. Another, equally disreputable-looking man was sitting on the other side of the cell, apparently asleep. Shrugging fractionally, the former marine replied, "No more'n I don't like them."

The one-eyed man laughed, an unpleasant sound to James' ears. "Y'don't say? 'Ey, Pintel, they brought in another one."

"Can't ya see I'm sleepin'?" The other fellow grumbled, cracking open one eye irritably. After a moment, however, he opened both of them with a sigh and looked over. "Guess they really don't like ya."

"S'how it goes," James said with a slight shrug. "Ain't no especial treatment for former marines, no how."

"Former marine, eh?" The man who had been called Pintel said. He scratched his head thoughtfully. "Ain't that interestin'. Wot'd ya do? Shoot somebody?"

"Aye."

The two dirty men exchanged glances. Pintel said, "Well now. That's very interestin'. Why'd ya do somethin' like that, then?"

Why did he care? James wondered. Perhaps they were some sort of petty criminals who had been unlucky enough to get caught by the marines. Who was he to say, really? The former marine carefully pushed himself up into a sitting position and gingerly touched the badly swollen mess that was his left cheek. It could simply be that these two were excited by the appearance of a new face in their dull world. "Tired of bein' treated like scum, really."

"Huh, yer in good comp'ny here, then!" The one-eyed man declared, sticking his arm through the bars. "Name's Ragetti, an' that there's Pintel. An' 'oo might yew be?"

For some reason, his hated nickname sprang into his mind. Being addressed by that name had gotten him into this mess, but perhaps it wouldn't hurt to shed as much of his old mentality and prejudices, especially if he could use that damn nickname to help get him out of here. Besides, it wouldn't do to spoil his father's name, in case he somehow made it out of here and back to England.

"Jimmy the Twig," James answered, heaving himself to his knees in order to return the handshake. It was a start.

* * *

They sat in a cluster in the corner of their adjacent cells, seperated only by the grimy iron bars, talking quietly. Darkness had long since fallen outside, but the trio hardly noticed. Down on their level of the dungeon, it was difficult to discern day from night anyway. It didn't make any sort of difference to them anyway. They were planning an escape in earnest, with a strong sense of urgency given James' early morning execution. With any sort of luck, the trio could pull off a successful escape. It helped substantially that James knew the fort and the dungeons intimately.

Once or twice, a marine guard would tramp past, but they were ignored. James had sketched out a rough diagram of the dungeon and the above fort in the dirt, after clearing away most of the straw, and it appeared as though the other two understood the scribblings. They had better, even if they followed his every direction to the letter. It was easy to become hopelessly lost. That would never do!

"So...once we're out of 'ere, wot next?"

James tapped a finger onto the dirt mound that represented the fort's gate. "We head fer this here, it's on'y a quick nip from the back stairwell. From there, it's down t'the docks an' off this bleedin' island."

Ragetti gave a nod, his wooden eye twitching slightly. "We just foller you?"

"Aye. Keep up or you're on your own," the Surreyman answered, carefully keeping his gaze on the diagram. He was disturbed by the man's false eye, and the frequency which he popped the device in and out of his head. It must take quite a bit of getting used to. The man's companion hardly noticed at all. "Start fightin' before the guard comes back 'round, or he won't fall fer it."

Both men nodded this time. James swept his hand through the diagram, effectively erasing any trace of it, and pushed straw over the spot. "Right then. He'll be along inna bit." So saying, he moved back toward the middle of his cell and flopped down on the straw, keeping an eye on the corridor outside. Any minute now, really. Hopefully those two would pull off their bit.

He needn't have worried. Ragetti was the first to speak up, howling about his eye. His companion started bawling at him to shut it, which only made Ragetti seemingly angrier. The two men were quick to start shoving each other, and a marine was not long in hurrying from around the corner, keys in hand, to silence and seperate the two. As soon as the unsuspecting marine entered their cell, the two arguing prisoners forgot their quarrel and leaped upon the guard. It was over before the man had a chance to cry out, and Pintel straightened up, holding the keys up triumphantly. He didn't waste time opening James' cell, and the three of them stood for a moment in the corridor, enjoying their new-found freedom. Then it was time to get out of the dank, stinking dungeon.

James collected the guard's musket and bayonet, stuffing as many cartridges as he could into his pockets before fixing the bayonet to the musket. Nodding at the other two men, he started toward the back stairwell. Few marines used that particular passage, they'd be able to get out fairly easily. Pintel and Ragetti, despite being unarmed, followed him closely. He was their surest way out of the fort. The Surreyman paused at the bottom of the stairs and listened for a moment. If they somehow ran into a marine on the way up, the whole fort would know they'd escaped.

"Quiet like, now."

Up the hard, cold stone steps, bayonet-tipped musket gripped in white-knuckled hands. James had not told the other two that he was leading them dangerously close to the guard-house. No need to cause his new-found allies undue concern, after all. If they were quiet and quick about it, they could sneak past without notice. Once they were above ground again, it was a short sprint to the main gate and out, and they'd be past the fort's defences.

But Luck appeared to be against them. As James reached for the iron ring that served as a door handle on the thick wooden portal standing between them and freedom, the door suddenly swung open to reveal a young marine. Both men stared at each other in surprise for a moment before James recovered his wits and lunged forward with the musket. The young marine gaped at the Surreyman, his mouth working soundlessly as he collapsed, sliding off the crimson-stained bayonet. As the boy's body slumped to the floor, James rushed up the remaining steps, certain there were other marines nearby. He was not disappointed. With Pintel following directly behind, the dead young marine's musket in his hands, the former marine barrelled into the small room, driving his bayonet into another startled marine. After a moment's hesitation, Pintel used his own musket to club down the other occupant of the room, another corporal.

"Blimey," Ragetti breathed as he peeked into the room. His companion grabbed him round the neck and pulled him out of the doorway. James set down his bloodied musket and began dragging the second dead marine toward the stairwell.

"Get that other bloke o'er here, hide him quick like." The Surreyman hissed, giving the body a final shove with his foot. Ragetti and Pintel carried the unconscious marine to the stairwell and dumped him there unceremoniously. Their task completed, the three men took a bare few minutes to gather whatever weapons they could. Time was against them and running fast.

"Oi, Pintel, lookit this..."

"We ain't got time fer that, puddit down!"

"Hey! You there, what are you doing?"

James spun around and fired his musket from the hip, immediately recognising the voice as belonging to Sergeant Branning. The crack of the shot echoed deafeningly in the enclosed space and Branning toppled back out of the doorway. Pintel and Ragetti stared at him in shock, as the former marine hurriedly reloaded the musket. Shouts of alarm were ringing out all around the fort and the distant rumble of running feet signalled impending discovery.

"That's it, we're made. Let's go, mates!" James whooped, grabbing up the corporal's musket and tossing it to Ragetti. The one-eyed man was already wearing the corporal's sword. "C'mon!"

Each armed with a musket, the three men burst out of the small stone building and sprinted for the main gate, a mere ten yards off. Marines on the walltops shouted warnings as they opened fire, but their shots cracked harmlessly into the dirt just behind the fleeing prisoners. As was the standard procedure, the heavy main gate stood partially open to allow the horse-cart that carried marines into town to come and go. The trio headed directly for the opening, clutching their stolen weapons and shouting wildly as they neared freedom.

"It's Blackburn!"

James let out a triumphant bellow as he raced through the open gate, his fellow escaped prisoners hard on his heels. They had recognised him, bully for them! _Like to see 'em catch me now!_ The dirt road leading to town was clear of any red-coated men, allowing the fleeing trio a swift and unhampered dash down to the safety of the town. From the fort came the clear, ringing notes of the bugle, calling Alarm, To Arms, but it was all in vain, James knew. This time, he was free and he was staying free.


	6. Free

Happy holidays everyone! (Fixed the repeating paragraph problem. No clue how that one happened.)

* * *

The whaling ship that MacFarlane had arranged passage for him with was gone when the three escaped prisoners reached the docks, leaving James in a bad spot. Having no other immediate alternative, the trio had taken refuge in an abandoned stock-house, taking turns standing watch throughout the remainder of the night and the following day. None of the many marine patrols bothered to check the boarded-up old building, for which James was eternally grateful. 

Still, they were stranded on the hostile island, without apparent means of getting off it. Not having any idea what had happened to MacFarlane, it was nigh on impossible to know who on the waterfront could be trusted. Pintel, however, had come up with a brilliant idea. His knowledge of the area seemed sound enough. Not really surprising, since both men had professed themselves to be sailors. It had been presented simply enough.

Steal a ship.

And why not? With all that he had already done, what was the harm in adding another crime to the list? Merely attacking a marine was grounds for hanging, and he had killed four within the space of a day. It was strange how intoxicating it was to break the law so boldly, where he had once been a staunch upholder of it. James felt giddy with it all. And Pintel had taken over the role of plan-maker, laying out his scheme carefully, so it was understood by all. The only problem was, there were only three of them, and James was not a sailor. They would need to find a fourth man, willing to risk being caught and hung by the Navy for joining with them.

The approaching dusk of their first day of freedom found the trio peering warily through the cracks in the boards over the store-house's main doorway, watching the usual hustle and bustle of the docks. Earlier, James had spotted a couple of men he recognised from _Dauntless_, but they were generally content with their current life and unlikely to throw in their lot with three escaped prisoners. They needed a fourth man, at least, if they wanted to sail any craft successfully.

Pintel and Ragetti were working up to yet another argument over something only they knew, and James glared sullenly at them. There was something about those two that was vaguely familiar, like he had seen them somewhere before. Probably from one of the nightly tavern brawls that his squad had broken up. That had to be it, he couldn't think where else he might have encountered the unsavoury pair.

"C'mon now, shut yer gobs," James muttered, more to himself than to the quarreling sailors. He sat cross-legged atop an old crate, carefully cleaning his bloodstained bayonet. It might have been the same one he had speared that git Durham with, for all the time he was taking cleaning it. The only part of the previous night's escape that bothered him at all was the shocked face of that young marine. He couldn't have been any older than James. Poor lad, he'd probably only just arrived from England.

Movement, close to the store-house! James hissed a warning and the two bickering sailors fell silent, frozen in place, in fact, as the former marine hefted his musket. Whoever was approaching was going to receive a welcome he wouldn't expect! As he shifted his position slightly to bring the musket nearer to his shoulder, he saw Pintel reach for one of the other muskets. Good, the more firepower, the better. Farther down the long wall of the store-house, boards rattled. James and Pintel pointed their muskets at the spot, fingers tightening on triggers as a brown-haired head appeared through the wall.

" 'Ey lads, wot took yer so long?"

James lowered his musket with a curse, rolling his eyes. "Damn you, MacFarlane! Wot're you doin', givin' us a start like that!" He turned sharply to stalk toward the crate where he'd been sitting. Ragetti had managed to steal a couple bottles of brandy and James had been sipping from the remaining bottle occasionally throughout the afternoon. He tossed the half-empty bottle at the grinning Scotsman, shaking his head wearily.

"I was wonderin' if they'd got you," the Surreyman said, settling reluctantly back onto his crate. Just where had that damn Scotsman been, while he and his newly-met companions had been ducking from the marines? "Where the devil've you been?"

MacFarlane swiped a hand across his mouth, carelessly smearing drops of brandy into the stubble on his chin. " 'Idin'. Reckon ya've been busy, eh?"

"A bit."

" 'Oo's 'e?" Pintel demanded, still holding his musket. He and Ragetti were staring warily at MacFarlane, sizing him up. James shrugged, catching the brandy bottle as MacFarlane tossed it back to him.

"Gents, this here's Scotchy MacFarlane," the former marine replied. "The bloke wot helped get me outta the marines in the first place. Though, where he's been since those blackguards caught me up, I don't think I wanna know!"

MacFarlane offered a wolfish grin and scratched himself. "Sailor's gotta tend 'is needs, y'know, mate, fewg'tive or not!"

A silence fell over the group, as James returned to the task of cleaning his musket and bayonet and MacFarlane ambled over to reclaim the brandy bottle. Pintel and Ragetti resumed whatever quarrel they had been having. It was almost like being back at the fort, only the players were vastly different. James wondered how the four of them would be able to successfully steal a ship, let alone manage to sail past the formidable guns of _Dauntless_ and the fort without injury. Although, he mused, it wasn't likely that anyone would expect them to escape to sea, at least not so soon.

" 'Ow're we gettin' off this rock, then?"

James and Pintel exchanged glances, the older man's gaze asking the question that must have been plaguing him fiercely. "Pintel?" The Surreyman said, giving a slight nod of assent. It was Pintel's plan, after all, but they needed MacFarlane in order to make it work. Pintel launched into a description of their plan and the Scotsman listened intently. When he was finished, the portly sailor sat back and grinned slightly.

"Well?"

"Rubbish," MacFarlane replied without hesitation and Pintel lost his smile. The Navy sailor held up a hand. " 'Old on there, mate. Lissen a wee bit, eh? S'a fair idea ya've got, but _Dauntless_ ain't no kinda 'armless jollyboat, she ain't. The lads aboard 'er are keen bastards an' strung tigher'n a fiddle after that Sparrow bloke got away. Every ship wot sails outta the bay gets 'ailed, some get boarded. Wivvout _Interceptor_, it's a mite much fer one crew, but the Commodore's 'ell-bent on makin' sure ain't no uvver disreputable blackguards gets off the island, see?" The Scotsman paused to spit out a stream of brown-tinged saliva, the slightly-reeking result of the plug of tobacco he had wedged in his cheek. "Now, yer scheme ain't a bad 'un, but fer the gettin' outta 'arbour bit. Surest way was t'get signed as crew on some merchant ship like, but Blackburn over there went an' ruined that."

"Hey now, yer the one who - "

"Shurrup, mate, s'a joke," MacFarlane interrupted. "Laugh, aye? Anyways, 'ere's the plot. Stealin' a ship's all well'n good, but it's safer t'be taken on as crew, like. I knows a lad 'oo's got a ship bound fer Tortuga, of all places, but 'e needs a crew to sail there. I figger, why not, eh?"

Pintel and Ragetti both nodded vigorously, delighted expressions on their faces, but James figured their enthusiasm was born of eagerness to get away from Port Royal. The Surreyman held up his bayonet and ran his thumb along the edge of the blade to test its sharpness.

"Sounds good to me," he replied. MacFarlane grinned and spat out the last of his tobacco.

"It's settled, then. Git some sleep, me mates, we'll be shovin' off at first light!"

* * *

A gentle early morning breeze whispered over the deck of _HMS Dauntless_, stirring the neatly tied queue that trailed down between his shoulder blades. His sharp gaze missed nothing as it swept over the main deck, as the great ship's crew began to stir into wakefulness. The shrill notes of the boatswain's pipe calling Up All Hammocks reverberated in his ears, followed shortly by Matheson, the ruddy-faced boatswain, bawling bad-temperedly at slow-moving men. The drumming of many feet on the well-trodden lower decks was almost like music. Another typical morning aboard the _Dauntless_. 

Turning slightly toward the semi-distant town, First Lieutenant Wesley Gillette was dismayed to see the _Dauntless'_ jollyboat gliding over the gentle swells with only four men at the oars, instead of the eight that had gone ashore with the work-detail two days before. What the devil was going _on_ ashore? Yesterday, the marines had been entirely up in arms about something that had been reported to them by men returning from liberty. He had been quite unable to discern what had happened, owing to the obscenity-laden shouting that had briefly taken over the foc's'le, but if it only had meaning to the red-coats, it couldn't be something that would affect him. Matheson the boatswain had had a devil of a time quieting the worked-up marines, especially since the detachment's sergeant was one of the loudest in his fury. Apparently whatever they had been told had the largest impact with him.

"To the entry port if you please, Mister Matheson!" The lieutenant snapped, his attention shifting from the approaching jollyboat to the sailors moving about their tasks on the main deck. "I want to know who's missing. Mister Evans, pass the word for the Sergeant of Marines!"

He already knew who one of the missing would be. That damn troublemaker MacFarlane. This wasn't the first time the Scotsman had defaulted on a shore pass, only to turn up in the fort's dungeon, bruised and hungover. _Dauntless_' master, Captain Somersby, had all but given up on punishing the man. It did precious little to dissuade MacFarlane from getting into trouble and ran the risk of rendering him useless as a sailor. Three times the man had received lashes at the grating to no apparent effect. _Three times_. The lieutenant was appalled that any sailor was able to endure that sort of punishment and remain unaltered by it.

"Sent fer me sar?" The sergeant's gruff, authoritative voice carried a touch of annoyance at the summons, but Gillette chose to ignore it. He did not get along with the marines, as a matter of principle. Neither did he make a secret of the fact that he considered most of them to be simple-minded clods. Yesterday's incident did nothing to help raise their worth in his opinion. At least it was the first time he could recall them showing any sort of true emotion.

"Yes, Sergeant. Gather a shore party, six men. I believe there are sailors at the fort who will need to be retrieved. Mister Evans will accompany you. That is all."

"Aye sar." The sergeant - Gillette remembered suddenly that the man's name was Devlin - saluted smartly before tramping off, already barking out commands to the marines who were mustered near the forward larboard rail. Sighing wearily, as though he was quite put-out at the trial of dealing with marines, Gillette looked down toward the starboard midships rail, where the jollyboat had hooked on. The oarsmen and boatswain's mate had already come aboard and were giving their report to Matheson. Good. At least _something_ was going as it should.

After what appeared to be a harsh exchange of words and more than a little bit of gesturing on the part of Matheson, the jollyboat's crew scattered hurriedly. Matheson glared toward the shore for a long moment before approaching the afterdeck where Gillette stood. The man's knuckles were white as he gripped the short, stout cane that he used to spur along slow-moving or distruptive sailors and he trembled with impotent rage.

"Two defaulters, sir. MacFarlane and Yardley. Williams stayed ashore wiv Mister Slater to check about fer 'em." Matheson's ruddy face purpled. "I'd lay odds those two ruffians're back in the bleedin' gaol fer brawlin'!"

Gillette merely shrugged. Wherever MacFarlane went, Yardley was not far behind. The two men were close mates. "It's the routine for them, Matheson. I daresay it's a sort of sport. Surely you know that by now?"

"Aye sir, but I sure ain't gotta like it!" The boatswain declared, somewhat more restrained as he recognised the rebuke in Gillette's words. "Retrieval party fer 'em, sir?"

"That won't be necessary, there is a marine detail going ashore to fetch them."

The boatswain gave a curt nod, a knowing grin coming onto his face. "Fair 'nough, sir. When shall I call defaulters, then, sir?"

A similar, though smaller, smile tugged at the corner of Gillette's mouth. He was not at liberty to issue punishment - only the ship's captain held that power, and he was currently at the fort. The most he could do was order the two sailors to be placed in irons and under a marine guard until Somersby returned. "Not for awhile yet, Mister Matheson. I'm certain Captain Somersby would like to attend to that himself, when he returns."

Matheson knuckled his brow and returned to the task of berating the crew, something he was quite fond of doing. Feet drummed over the deck as sailors dashed about, suitably galvanised by the boatswain's gruff bark and freely-applied cane. Smiling to himself, Gillette looked down at the starboard rail, where the marine shore party had assembled. Sergeant Devlin was haranguing the men thoroughly, explaining their task and adding in liberal threats of what might happen should any of the men bring the slightest embarrassment onto him. Still smarting from whatever news he had received the day before? Probably. Nearby, Midshipman Evans watched with a smirk playing about his lips. Gillette shook his head. The boy was quite a handful when he was of a mind to be, and not someone to whom Gillette took a liking. Not, he mused, that he took a liking to many people anyway.

One by one, the marines clambered over the side and down to the waiting jollyboat, their movements made awkward by the muskets slung across their backs. The boatswain's mate, Colburn, called out irritably for them to hurry up. Gillette's thoughts drifted to the two missing sailors. Would those two devils ever shape up? MacFarlane had gone on his first shore pass in a month, even though it was part of a work-detail. The damnable Scotsman loved to cause a stir in the taverns and nothing short of keeping him aboard ship permanently seemed a viable solution. And Yardley. That one wasn't half as bad. If he did not follow MacFarlane every place, he would hardly ever find himself in trouble. What made such men continually misbehave, knowing the fate that awaited them when they were caught? It was something Gillette figured he would never understand.

Close on the heels of the two troublesome sailors was the memory of the sounds of musket fire that had been audible, even where _Dauntless_ swung lazily about on her anchor cable, and every man on deck had paused to stare up toward the fort in surprise. There'd been sporadic bursts of musket fire throughout the rest of the afternoon and the marines who had not been granted liberty crowded together on the foc's'le with telescopes, chattering anxiously amongst themselves. Perhaps the goings-on in the town were the basis of whatever bad news they had been given when the libertymen returned? It was hard to imagine that anything occurring ashore warranted such extensive gunfire.

Matheson reappeared on the quarterdeck with his gleaming silver pipe in hand. A moment later, the shrill, lingering notes danced in the morning air. Gillette blinked. Was it already breakfast? Where had the time gone? It seemed only minutes before that Matheson had piped Up All Hammocks. The purser would be preparing the morning ration of rum to be distributed to the men and Gillette's presence was required below to monitor the proceedure. Grumbling silently, he descended the ladder to the gun deck and nodded stiffly at those sailors who stepped aside to let him past. Perhaps he should start paying a bit more attention to the half-hourly bell!

* * *

She was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Sleek and well-shaped, rising and falling smoothly with the outgoing tide. Neatly furled sails and the sharp reek of fresh tar suggested her captain held a vested interest in maintaining her. She was delightful to look at and quite deserving of her name, _Dolphin._ Samuel knew he had chosen a get-away ship very well. It helped a good deal that he knew the ship's captain from his merchant sailing days. When he had spotted the man at one of the many taverns in town, he had thought he was seeing a ghost. Toby had quickly agreed to provide the four fugitives with passage off Port Royal, for a price, of course. 

Blackburn and his two fellow escapees had already carried their stolen weapons aboard and wandered about the ship, getting acquianted with their new home. The two former merchant sailors stood on the dock, gazing across the bay at _Dauntless_, the largest remaining obstacle standing between them and the open sea. Without a doubt word had reached the great ship of Samuel's disappearance and Blackburn's treachery. Every ship leaving the harbour would be stopped and searched. He was well-known to _Dauntless'_ crew and officers alike, and the marines aboard would know Blackburn. Both men would either have to hide somewhere aboard or assemble some sort of disguise and hope it would be enough to fool anyone who came aboard to search for them.

"Wot d'you fink's best, Scotchy? There ain't many places fer 'idin' but I'm shore we cud find one. Fer tha' Blackburn lad anyway, dunno 'bout yew, I'd need yew aloft like," Toby said, digging a fresh pinch of snuff from a small, ornately-carved box he'd produced from a pocket. Pausing to spit out the last of the old tobacco, he stuffed the fresh pinch into the leathery fold of his cheek. "S'likely we'll get boarded an' looked over thorough-like, they'll fin' yew an' the lad shore, if given 'arf a chance."

Samuel shrugged idly. "Don't reckon there's much fer it, really. The lads all know me face, any of 'em might turn me in. Dunno 'bout Blackburn, but 'e's more wanted than me, y'know. Kilt four of 'is fellows. They're 'ard after 'im, they are."

"A dangerous bloke eh? It'd go 'ard fer alla us if 'e's found aboard, mate."

"I know. Best I c'n think is fer me t'be aloft where they ain't gonna notice me. Blackburn ain't no kinda sailor, dunno wot ya wanna do wiv 'im. Dress 'im like ol' Connelly used ta, but 'ave 'im be 'indisposed'?"

Toby grinned crookedly and nodded. "Tha'd work. It'd keep yew bowf outta sight. Them uvver two, don't reckon _they're_ bein' looked fer!"

"Nope. 'Bout time we 'eaded fer open water, the tide'll be peakin' soon." Samuel spat out the used-up tobacco that had been tucked in his cheek and trotted up the gangplank to the ship's main deck. Blackburn was nowhere to be seen, while Pintel and Ragetti were lounging near the mainmast. There were other men on deck, Toby's brother and the original three crew before Samuel and the others had joined the sloop. In a clear effort to provide a little bit of extra manpower, Toby had hired four spare men, in case the elegant sloop ran into difficulties. In total, there were fourteen men making up _Dolphin's_ crew. Samuel tossed a half-mocking salute as he approached the quarterdeck, calling out, "Oi, y'big ugly bastard, yer still alive?"

"Aye, an' lookin' to earn a dishonest livin'. Yew interested?"

The two men shared a bone-crushing handshake. "Bet yer life I am!"

"Hands 'bout ship to cast off, we're leavin' this 'ere rock!" Toby called out, taking his place at the ship's wheel. Pintel and Ragetti ran forward, while Samuel darted aft, and within minutes the stately two-masted sloop was gliding away from the dock. The Scotsman was quick to head into the rigging, climbing to the main royal yard, where he could see everything for miles and be safe from the scrunity of the inevitable boarding party. Blackburn had remained somewhere below deck, probably wherever Toby's brother had told him to hide. Billy and Toby were a pair of real old salts, even though they were barely two years older than Samuel.

The mainmast swayed dizzingly as he reached the royal top, but he was immune to it, owing to long experience and a natural love for being so high above the deck. _Dolphin_ dipped and rose gracefully over the outgoing swells, her sails fluttering as the crew cast them free from the yards. Billy Smith and one of the four extra men Toby had managed to hire shook out the main topgallant sail, then all sailors scurried back down to the deck. Samuel swung his legs lazily, straddling the yardarm as if he'd been born there. This was living!

_Dauntless_ loomed nearer as the sloop cut through the waves on her way clear of the bay, and a single cannon on the second-rate's bow boomed a warning shot. Samuel looked at the great ship and saw sailors and marines assembling on deck, no doubt preparing to clamber down into _Dauntless_' launch, which was bobbing alongside. There were calls from below him as the men scrambled to reef the maincourse, to get _Dolphin_ hove to out of the wind. All according to plan thus far. He watched the launch cross toward them, recognising an officer sitting stiffly in the launch's sternsheets. There were a few too many marines clustered in the middle of the launch for Samuel's liking. Did they suspect who might be aboard?

He scarcely dared to breathe when _Dauntless_' launch hooked on and the boarding party climbed up onto the deck. As high up as he was, he couldn't hear whatever was being discussed below, but Toby was a first-class liar when it came to dealing with figures of authority. If anybody could convince those Navy bastards there was nothing of interest aboard _Dolphin_, Toby could. While he watched, however, he noticed marines walking about the deck, apparently under orders to check everywhere. A couple even went below deck, accompanied by a midshipman. Shite. If Blackburn was hiding below deck, Samuel was sure the marines would somehow find him. Several long, tense minutes dragged by, while the officer and Toby exchanged what looked to be increasingly heated words.

Then, suddenly, it was over. The marines who had gone below reappeared, shaking their heads. Within minutes the boarding party had returned to the launch and cast off, leaving _Dolphin_ to continue on her way. Samuel quickly crossed himself. He would have to ask Billy where he'd hidden Blackburn, for wherever it had been, it was a damn good place.

Port Royal faded into the distance behind them and there was the blessed wide expanse of the ocean before them. Samuel couldn't help letting out a joyous whoop. They'd slipped past the Navy without incident. Those fools. _Dolphin_ would make its way around the island and stop at a previously agreed-upon spot and retrieve the final member of the fugitive party, then they were free to sail wherever they wished. The Navy would never find the lot of them now!


	7. Meetings

Thank you to those who have reviewed. Much appreciated.

Short chapter.

* * *

A half-full bottle of rum sailed past his head and shattered on the street, spraying amber liquid everywhere. James sidestepped reflexively and stumbled over an unconscious drunk sprawled in the gutter. Toby Smith grabbed the back of his shirt to steady him, shaking his head at the lad's wide-eyed, awestruck expression.

"Firs' time 'ere, eh?" The _Dolphin_'s master boomed a laugh. "Donnae worry yer wee 'ead, mate, yew'll git used t'Tortuga, an' ne'er wish t'be away fer too long!"

The former marine made a mental note to watch where he stepped and meekly followed Toby, past a pair of badly-singing drunks, and into a tavern. Bottles, chairs, and bits of rubbish flew everywhere around the tavern's interior, accompanied by sporadic cracks of pistols fired in the ceiling. James staggered back when a man crashed into him, part of a table leg clenched in his meaty fist. The man reeked of bad ale and seemed to think James had been the one to shove him. Terrified, James tried to push the drunk away and received a hearty whack from the table leg for his troubles. This wasn't anything like he was used to and it was completely humbling. He was accustomed to brawlers giving way to him when he stepped into a tavern, warned away from their activities by his scarlet coatee and ever-present musket.

" 'Ere now, yew swine, move it along!"

James stumbled after Toby after the big sailor had given the table leg-wielding drunk a hard shove toward the door. Rubbing his shoulder where the oak leg had struck, he wondered just how any man could get used to such a place. "Is this all they do here?"

Toby nodded, leading James to a less-rowdy corner of the tavern. "Aye. Tortuga, me boyo, is every man's paradise. Rum, women, an', best of all, no Navy!" He grinned and winked roguishly. "Y'see, wee man, there's a lotta life outsida the Navy, a helluva lot more'n they'd want yew to fink!"

A round-bosomed barmaid wove expertly through the ongoing brawl, two large tankards in her hands. She smiled when she saw Toby and made a point to bend low over the table as she placed the tankards onto the heavily-scarred wooden surface. "Good to see yeh back 'ere, Tobs, I've missed yeh!"

"An' I've missed yew, me dear. We'll 'ave t'catch up later, eh?"

The barmaid giggled and bustled away, and Toby cast a wolfish grin at James. "See, there ain't a reason fer any lad t'feel unwanted, if 'e knows the right folks!"

His unease slipping slightly, James picked up his tankard and took a large swig of its contents. He gasped at the fire that flowed down his throat and hurriedly set the metal vessel down with a thud. Toby laughed as he drank, apparently unfazed by the powerful concoction. Feeling foolish, James coughed and forced himself to swallow another mouthful. "Wot're we here for, anyway? I'm not sure - "

Toby held up a hand, interrupting the Surreyman in mid-sentence. "I wanted t'talk wiv yew away from the crew. Figger wot yer plans was, like. So yew made it outta the Navy, bloody wunnerful. Now wot?"

"I - " James cut himself off, realising he had not thought that far ahead. Other than the wild fantasies of turning his hand to an honest trade, he had not firmly decided on a course of action. What _could_ he do? Without a doubt the Navy would be hunting for him. The hot flush of embarrassment burned his cheeks. Toby nodded knowingly.

"I figgered. Scotchy dinnae fink yew'd 'ave fings worked out. S'why I've got a bloke wot cud use a lad 'andy wiv musket an' sword comin' t'join us." The _Dolphin_'s master glanced toward the door and smiled. "Ah, 'ere 'e comes. A former Navy lad 'isself, wudden't yew know?"

"Well if it ain't been a fair few days since I've laid eyes on you, Tobias Smith," the round-bellied man declared as he approached, thrusting out his hand. "When I heard you was in port, I thought I was hearin' a lie!"

"Not a lie, only a 'arf truth wiv a bit o' wishful finkin'," Toby greeted, waving the newcomer to a chair. "Siddown, Gibbs, an' meet me mate Jimmy. Jes' outta Port Royal, y'know, an' lookin' fer meanin'ful employment."

"Does he now?" The man addressed as Gibbs eyed James thoughtfully. "Maybe I can find work for him. What're you good at, lad?'

"Shooting," James replied without hesitation. As strange as this meeting was, the prospect of being given work filled him with eagerness. "I can load an' fire a musket within seventeen seconds. An' hit whatever I'm aimin' at." Pride in his ability made him sit up a bit straighter and he hoped he looked like a capable worker. Whatever work this Gibbs might have to offer no doubt required a confident and able man.

Gibbs' gaze jerked to Toby, his expression a mixture of surprise and dismay. Coughing to clear his throat of the brandy he had choked on, he sputtered, "A marine, Smith? How'd the bloody hell did you get him off Port Royal?"

" 'E got 'isself off Port Royal, I jes' gave 'im a ship to 'ide on." Toby replied, finishing off the last of his drink. "Shot down three marines an' bayoneted two uvvers, all dead 'cept one, 'e says. Scotchy MacFarlane says 'e's a good 'un."

James felt like a bit of meat, the way the older men were studying him. Almost like he was being haggled over by the merchant and prospective buyer. The thought was not a comforting one. Perhaps going to work tor Gibbs wouldn't be the best thing. Toby reached out and clapped the former marine on the shoulder, saying, "I reckon yer boss cud use a man good wiv a musket, eh?"

"Maybe. What sort of sailor are ye?"

"Not very good, sar, but learnin'."

"Hmph, I might be able to take him aboard. Dunno how happy Jack'd be with a lad who ain't a sailor, let alone one who's prob'ly gonna be hunted by the Navy. Is he reliable?"

Toby nodded. "I've 'ad it from Scotchy an' Toms tha' 'e's a true lad, an' keen. 'E's learnin' fast wiv Billy teachin' 'im. Reckon 'e'll make a fine sailor."

Both men looked at James. The Surreyman wilted slightly under their gazes, unsure just what their meaning was. The riotous noise of the tavern suddenly felt as though it was crushing against him, crowding his thoughts with the crashing of bottles and whumps of sloppily-thrown punches. What was it these two were planning for him? Gibbs broke the silence first with a crisp nod.

"Aye. He looks strong enough. Lad, how would you like to sail under the command of the greatest pirate ever known to the Caribbean?"

_Pirate?_ James' eyes went saucer-round as he stared at the two men, disbelieving. They expected him to sail for a _pirate?_ Were they daft? He had not deserted from the marines so he could end up on some damn pirate's crew! It was insulting even to think of! His chair gave a clatter as it fell, knocked over in his rush to stand.

"Sail fer a _pirate?_ I'd ruther hang!" So saying, James stormed away from the table and shoved his way roughly through the mass of brawlers toward the door. Behind him, Toby simply smiled and leaned back in his chair, while Gibbs gaped at him in shock.

"What the devil was that about?"

Toby reached across the table and helped himself to James' abandoned tankard. " 'E's still finkin' like a marine. I'll take 'im along wiv me on me routes, shape 'im up some. We'll meet back up 'ere in two months' time, eh? By then 'e'll be agreeable, or I'm a flamin' liar!"

* * *

His glare could have melted the iron of a cannon and the three men seated on the other side of the desk shrank back slightly as he turned his furious brown eyes to each of them in turn. They were three of the most powerful men in the fort, but to a man they were thoroughly cowed by the anger radiating from their superior. It had been scarcely four days since MacFarlane, Yardley, and Blackburn had disappeared, but Commodore Norrington had been in such a state that he had not called the three officers most involved until nearly the end of the week. That alone had warned Gillette that things were not going to go well.

"Gentlemen," the Commodore said through gritted teeth, "I would like to know precisely how it was that a marine and two sailors, not to mention two pirates, managed to escape from this island without any sort of concerted effort to stop them!" His steely glare shifted to Gillette and rested there. "I should like to hear from you first, Lieutenant."

Gillette did his best not to squirm in his chair. "I followed protocol to the letter, sir. There was no sign of any of the men aboard any ship that we stopped and searched. Each boarding party had marines and sailors who knew the men. We found nothing." The lieutenant winced. "I did not receive the news about that marine until mid-afternoon as it was, sir."

"Indeed? I am told that several sailors aboard _Dauntless_ soptted Able Seaman MacFarlane going aboard a sloop early this morning. Only after intensive questioning by Mister Matheson did those men reveal this information. With that in mind, I highly doubt any sailors in the boarding parties would have given MacFarlane or Yardley up!"

Was that true? Gillette scarcely wished to believe it. Every man on those boarding parties had sworn they had not seen the missing sailors. Which out-going ship had they been aboard? It would have been better to simply declare the bay closed to out-going traffic, but that idea had not occurred to anyone in time. The marine search patrols ashore, however, knew their quarry from the very start. Gillette couldn't imagine how furious the red-coats had been and probably still were when they failed in their task. Perhaps their feeling was equal to the Commodore's?

_Dauntless_' master cleared his throat. "Beg your pardon, sir, but I daresay these scoundrels already had a means of escape long pre-arranged."

"Do you, sir? What brought you to this conclusion?"

Somersby's face coloured, but he replied "Simply by the nature of their escape, sir. The brick-thrower who ambushed that one marine squad, the captain and crew of the sloop they sailed aboard, and God knows how many others. I've little doubt that devil MacFarlane had a large part in this whole thing!"

"It's not as if we sat idly by and allowed those bastards escape, sir. Every marine in the garrison was combing the town and waterfront, day and bloody night!" The Captain of Marines broke in, his voice strained. "We left the entire sodding fort defenceless, for God's sake!"

"And yet they were able to elude capture not once, or even twice, but _three_ times!" Norrington shot back angrily. "Tell me how such incompetence can be tolerated, Major, I really would like to know. This marine, this Blackburn, is it, single-handedly killed four marines in two separate bids to escape, and yet he was able to get away without repercussion. Furthermore, your Colour-Sergeant Crawford's wanton disregard for higher authority is an utter disgrace. Are you aware that he struck a midshipman when he was told to stop shouting insults at several injured marines?"

The Captain of Marines quivered slightly. "I'm quite aware of that incident, sir. As for Colour-Sergeant Crawford, I've half a mind to commission the man! If not for him, there would have been _no_ immediate response to Blackburn's rampage!"

_Shite. Not so wise, Major._ Gillette thought, suppressing a wince as Commodore Norrington drew in a sharp breath. He had seen that expression before, usually preceding a pride-shattering dressing down. Captain Collins was in for it.

"Must I remind you, _Major_, that there are four dead marines in the church graveyard and seven others in hospital, and _your marines let the ones responsible for it escape!_" Norrington's voice grew louder until he was shouting. "Whether or not your men did their best is immaterial, the reality is that they failed and now there are three deserters and two escaped prisoners on the loose. God only knows how many others have thrown in with them! By rights I should have the lot of you on charges, you're all bloody responsible for this mess!"

Captain Collins stiffened in his chair, his face clouding. It was about to become a fight, a no-holds-barred verbal sparring match that could only end with Collins' dismissal. They needed the marine officer's steady sense of leadership, especially given how loudly the marine garrison was howling for the chance to hunt down their treacherous comrade. Who could blame them? With the losses they had taken at the hands of that Blackburn, any sensible man would want blood for blood.

"Maybe we should be considering our options in terms of catching these three, rather than arguing over who failed in what way," Gillette said, casting a pointed glance at the seething Collins. "I'm sure you could muster plenty of volunteers for shipboard detachments, Major."

It was as if he had flipped a switch. The Commodore sat down heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. It was apparent the last thing he wanted to deal with was the matter of three deserters, one of them a murderous marine. "I trust you can see to the necessary preparations, Lieutenant. Captain Somersby, you will oversee the organisation of _Interceptor_'s crew, as most of them will be remaining behind here to man the fort. As for you, Major..." Norrington looked up at the marine officer, his expression drifting into neutrality. "I would like a skeleton crew of marines to remain at the fort with _Interceptor_'s crew. _Falcon_ will remain here as well, with her crew and marine complement. We can't all go dashing off after these blackguards. Organise your companies into detachments, make sure they understand that this will not become a pursuit for revenge. We will catch these men, and whomever is hiding them, and they will all hang. Is that understood?"

The three men nodded somberly. Norrington stood up. "We will depart no later than noon tomorrow. That is all."

Collins was the first to the door, his stride hinting at a smouldering anger he wished to hide before it could boil over into words. As Gillette followed, he found that he could hardly blame the man. As much as he disliked the marines in general, Collins was not wholly a bad sort. How deeply must he feel the Commodore's sharp rebuke? And what of Captain Somersby? He had managed to escape censure, although his part in the whole mess was minimal. It gave Gillette shivers to think of seeing the dead marines laid out in the fort's hospital. He could share a small piece of the marines' rage and grief. It was never easy to lose a man.

"Lieutenant, might I have a word?" It was the Commodore, standing in the doorway of his office. _What now?_ Gillette thought as he faced about, choosing to catch up to Collins and Somersby at a later time. It was probably his turn for a biting reprimand.

"Sir?"

"You were officer of the watch when those two sailors were first reported missing. This is not the first time?"

Gillette shook his head. "No sir. MacFarlane is... was, a frequent defaulter."

"I see. Send Mister Matheson to my office when you next see him, he should be ashore by now." With that, the office door thudded shut, leaving Gillette standing, more than a little puzzled, in the corridor.


	8. Storm

Again, thank you for the reviews. I do appreciate the feedback.

* * *

"Git yer scrawny arse up there, them topsails ain't gonna reef themselves!" 

James gripped the wet rope of the shrouds, half-way up to the foretop. Stinging, wind-driven rain whipped against his face and numbed his hands. The rest of the crew was already aloft and fighting with the heavy folds of wet canvas, while he clung to the shrouds helplessly. His stomach lurched and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, reaching up for the next loop of rope. This was madness! No man with any semblance of sanity could find this nightmare enjoyable. Was that why MacFarlane had howled with delight as he'd raced into the rigging, all the way up to the main royal yard, with Billy Smith hard on his heels? Sailors!

"Shift y'self, Twig!" It was Pintel, hollering from the yardarm above. Swallowing, James looked up and made himself climb the remaining distance. The mast swayed sickeningly and it felt like the wind was trying to rip him from the shrouds. If he fell, it would certainly kill him. James shivered, reaching up timidly for the edge of the platform. It felt slick with rain under his fingers. How was he supposed to get himself up to the yardarm? _The foretopmast shrouds. Of course. Just go for it, dammit!_ The Surreyman drew in a deep breath and curled both hands around the ropes, swinging his feet free of the shrouds to give himself enough momentum to drag himself up onto the platform. The storm-tossed sea chose that moment to suck _Dolphin_ into a deep trough, half a heartbeat before rolling her up the backside of a cresting wave. James' tenuous grip on the slick ropes was not strong enough to support his weight as the ship dipped sharply to larboard. He flailed for the shrouds even as his fingers slipped.

Hands grabbed his arms as he started to fall and for one long, terrifying moment, he was hanging free above the deck. Then his stomach dragged against the edge of the platform as Billy Smith pulled him up. The brawny sailor clapped James roughly on the back, offering him a toothy grin. "Wot whazzat, mate? Yew ain't a monkey!"

The Surreyman could only nod, trembling with cold and fear. It was almost forty feet to the deck, a fatal fall. He wasn't a sailor, he wasn't brave enough. All he wanted to do was get his feet on solid deck. Billy gave him a hard prod with his elbow before vanishing over the edge of the platform, heading back to the deck. James realised that the rest of the crew were scurrying down the shrouds or sliding down ratlines. He had gotten aloft in time to watch the men finish their tasks. Now he felt doubly stupid. He had been aboard _Dolphin_ for two weeks, attempting to learn how to function as a sailor, but he had been performing miserably. Somehow he couldn't get past the ingrained behaviours of a marine, which had been ground deeper into him than he'd first thought. The hardest things were to remember not to stamp his heels together every time Toby Smith passed him, and that he did not have to spend hours sharpening his bayonet or pipe-claying his cross belts every day. It was marvellous and maddening not to be a marine anymore.

"C'mon, Twig! Get down here!"

He barely heard the shouted words over the howling wind, but it was enough to stir him into action. Carefully sliding backward, he felt for the futtock shrouds with his feet, exhaling in relief when he settled his shoes onto the sturdy ropes. The climb down took far less time than the climb up had been, but he supposed he was simply anxious to set both feet back on deck and hurry below. MacFarlane was waiting for him at the base of the foremast, just in time to grab him as a wave crashed over the deck. Already shivering, James thought he had been doused with sheets of pure ice as the wave struck. The Scotsman bundled him below as the rush of water retreated, sure-footed while James repeatedly slipped and stumbled. Someone threw a blanket round his shoulders as he reached the lower deck and a mug of rum was shoved into his hand by a grinning Ragetti.

"Not bad fer your first storm!"

James gulped down the rum and nodded shakily. How could they think he had done well, when he never made it aloft in time to be any use? He had nearly fallen, which made it all the worse. "That was horrid," he stammered at length and the crew burst into laughter. Hands reached out to slap him on the back and shoulders as he walked unsteadily toward his hammock, warming his spirits with each step. Perhaps he had performed better than he gave himself credit for. At least he'd made it off the deck!

"Scotchy! Cap'n wants to see yer," one of the men called out and MacFarlane went topside again, grumbling mostly to himself. Billy Smith appeared to help James unroll his hammock, a rakehell grin lighting up his face. The large sailor had taken a liking to him from the start. It was his clever thinking that had enabled James to hide from the Navy's search party so well. Although, he had been somewhat stiff after being stuffed into that barrel for so long!

"First storm, eh?" Billy asked. "Not a bad showin', really. Yer afraid, though, an' tha' ain't good. Fear is the enemy. A good sailor fergets wot the word is, an' 'ow it feels, 'cos fear kills lads. Makes yew stiff, like yew was up there."

"But I fell..."

"No, yew slipped. S'a spot o' bad luck, 'appens t'the best o' us. I caught yew, din't I? Yew dinnae fall. Look 'ere, Jimmy me lad, ain't no place fer fear in a sailor's 'eart. Only trust in 'is mates an' 'is own skill. Did yew see Scotchy up there? Tha' lad's a natural-born sailor. Been sailin' since 'e were seven, d'yew know. Foller 'im about, 'e'll show yew the finer points o' the life." Billy gave the Surreyman's hair a playful tousle. "Best catch some rest while yew can, wee man. It'll be all 'ands soon's this storm lets up!"

James settled into his hammock and gazed up at the beams overhead, half-listening to the low rumble of talk from the men, intermingled with the louder boom of water crashing along the _Dolphin_'s sturdy hull. His hammock swayed with the slightest roll of the sloop in the storm-tossed sea, but when he closed his eyes, the motions were like being rocked in a cradle. Cold, weary, and feeling strangely alone, his thoughts turned to his previous life, not with the marines, but at home in the forests of Surrey.

* * *

The formidable bulk of _HMS Dauntless_ rose and fell with each white-capped wave, bearing the storm's fury with seemingly effortless ease. Her lower decks were uncomfortably full with sailors and marines, which helped steady her in the raging sea. The discomfort and seasickness that was rife below decks was an entire world apart from the almost tranquil scene that was the Commodore's cabin. Every officer aboard was seated around the table, pressed together elbow to elbow in order to make enough room for all. The Commodore sat at the head of the table and as such possessed the most space of anyone at the table, but he was hardly in a mood to enjoy that rare comfort. Gillette was seated between Captain Collins and the Commodore, a position he heartily disliked. The two officers had been exchanging sharp, barbed remarks all evening. It hardly helped that Norrington had been in a foul temper ever since _Dauntless_ departed Port Royal. Neither did the fact that Collins, while only the equivalent of a Navy first lieutenant, was the third-most ranking officer aboard, owing to his position of commander of the marine contingent. Gillette suspected that neither man thought much of the other, rank differences aside.

Two weeks at sea and no closer to tracking down the sloop called _Dolphin_. They had encountered ships of all sorts but never the one they sought. Had the ship simply vanished? Such a feat seemed impossible, but Gillette was hesitant to believe _anything_ to be impossible these days. Not after crossing blades with undead pirates.

"I say _again_, sir, we're not going to catch either Blackburn _or_ Sparrow. Especially not with an overloaded ship!"

Gillette winced. The Captain of Marines was convinced that Norrington was using the hunt for the deserters as an excuse to salve his wounded pride. It was a dangerous path to travel with any man, but with the Commodore... Collins could very well find himself clapped in irons and dragged below to the brig. While he admired the marine officer's boldness, there were times to voice one's opinions, and in the presence of every officer aboard was not one of those times.

"And I say again, Major, that you are in command of the marines, not this ship!" Norrington replied, somehow keeping his voice moderately calm. "I hardly have to remind you of the debacle that marked the last time you held any sort of authority over a ship of the line!"

Collins set down his glass and glanced sharply at the Commodore, his hawk-like features darkening. "That was hardly my doing. Indeed, had it not been for my assuming command, the entire bloody ship would have been lost!"

On the other side of the table, Captain Somersby flinched. Collins' two lieutenants took a sudden interest in their glasses of port. The air in the cramped cabin had suddenly become positively cold as Norrington slowly shifted in his chair to meet the marine officer's gaze. Resisting the urge to sink back in his own chair, Gillette looked at both men with a carefully blank expression. "Perhaps, sir, this might be a conversation better held at a later time?" The lieutenant ventured.

"Indeed, that would be wise," Norrington replied, still remarkably composed in the face of Collins' anger. How did he manage to appear so collected? Gillette wondered. His own temper would have flared up at the first sign of a raised voice, especially from a junior officer. "I'm rather appalled at your lack of restraint, Major, and in the presence of your officers, no less."

There was a scraping thud as Collins' chair clattered away from the table and the marine officer was on his feet. In the low-ceilinged cabin, he was forced to hunch over slightly and being inches taller than most men, this made him appear all the more imposing. "In other circumstances, I would have demanded satisfaction for such a remark, sir. But for the presnce of _your_ officers." The marine's shoes thudded dully over the deck as he stalked from the cabin, followed after a moment by his lieutenants, who exchanged meaningful glances before rising. The remaining officers stared at each other, disbelieving and dumbfounded at the scene. To his credit, the Commodore lifted a linen napkin and gave his mouth a quick dab.

"I believe that will be all for this evening, gentlemen. You may return to your duties."

Chairs scratched over the deck as _Dauntless_' officers rose from the table, filing silently toward the door. Gillette was half a step from crossing the threshold when Norrington called out, "Captain Somersby, Lieutenant Gillette. Remain behind, if you please."

"Sir?" Somersby's Cornwall dialect sounded flat to Gillette's ears. The two summoned officers cautiously approached the table, unsure why their presence was desired. For his part, Gillette wanted nothinig more than to return to the cramped wardroom, where at least he would be able to listen to Collins' lieutenants discuss their thoughts on the evening. That would no doubt prove great insight into reasons for the Captain of Marines' behaviour.

"Your thoughts on Major Collins," Norringon said without preamble, his piercing gaze searching the faces of both men in turn. "Aside from the losses of his marines, from which I'm certain he is still smarting, what the devil is wrong with him?"

Gillette glanced at Somersby, ceding responsibility for answering to him. The _Dauntless_' master knew Collins better than he. Somersby fidgeted for a moment before replying, "Ill news from home, I believe, sir. Something to do with his wife."

_Damn._ The one-word thought that streaked through Gillette's mind found companion on the Commodore's face. Here, in select, trusted company, Norrington was able to lower his guard slightly. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he let out a long breath. "I will not have a man aboard who is not wholly focussed on the task at hand. I want this made clear to the officers and men."

"Yes sir," the two men chorused.

"Sir," Somersby ventured. "What of the task at hand? Is it truly hunting down the deserters, or we pursuing Jack Sparrow?" At the warning gleam that flashed in the Commodore's eyes, _Dauntless_' master hurried to add, "I'm not questioning your command, sir, merely curious. Sparrow cost me almost twenty men and made an utter mockery of my ship. I should like the chance to get the noose back 'round his neck. Sir."

"I second the feeling, sir," Gillette said. Somersby had been entirely beside himself after the nearly-disastrous night's battle with those damn deathless pirates. Even when Norrington was aboard, _Dauntless_ was still Somersby's command and he was very fond of the mighty ship. It had to pain him to see her so over-loaded with sailors and marines, and not know the true reason for it.

Norrington regarded Somersby casually, his expression once again neutral. Like a lion stalking his prey. "It is both. No doubt a pirate of Sparrow's standing would leap at the chance to take a marine and two able seamen onto his crew. It would add a measure of prestige to his black reputation, stealing men from the Royal Navy, almost directly under our noses. I can just see that smug bastard enjoying every moment of it!"

"Shall I pass this word to Jona - Major Collins, sir?"

"In strictest confidence only. Sailors are overly fond of gossip, the last thing we need is for wrod to escape that the deserters are not our only quarry." Norrington smiled. "The surest way to catch a fox is by baiting it, gentlemen."

It was a dismissal and the two officers started for the door. The Commodore's voice reached out to stop them a second time, although it was not a return summons. "My compliments to Major Collins, and would he join me here _immediately_."

Gillette supressed a shudder and hurried toward the companion ladder. He spent the remainder of the evening in the lieutenants' wardroom, swaying in his hammock, and doing his best not to listen to the raised voices in the Commodore's cabin above him.

* * *

"Ship sighted, dead a-stern, she's a big 'un!"

The lookout's cry barely reached Toby Smith's ears over the storm's wild roar. Staring aloft, he could dimly see the man pointing aft. A hand clamped onto his arm and a dripping wet face loomed close to his own. It was Scotchy, somehow back on deck after heading into the foretop only minutes before. Or had it been longer than that?

"_There_, it's the _Dauntless_!"

Toby was at the taffrail in an instant, a telescope pressed against one eye. Through the hazy curtain of wind-driven rain and darkness, he could make out the shape of a large ship, just cresting a wave. "Bloody Navy! All 'ands up, bend the to'gallants!"

"Are ya daft?" Scotchy's expression was dubious. "In this gale, we'd lose both ta'gallant masts, at least!"

"Do wot I tell yew, an' quick!" Toby snapped, and the younger sailor gave him a wary look before dashing toward the mainmast with the rest of the crew. Facing aft again, the _Dolphin_'s captain searching the dancing waves for any sign of their pursuers. He saw nothing, but that didn't mean the ship was gone. She had probably spotted _Dolphin_ and struggled through the storm to catch up with her. Not good, not good at all.

"Cap'n, she's closin' on us!"

"Bend those to'gallants!" Toby roared, knowing how difficult the task was, but not caring. If that damn Navy ship got close enough, they'd be in for it, storm or not. "MacFarlane, git down 'ere!" If there was anybody aboard who knew how the _Dauntless_ would react, it was that scrawny Highlander. Dolphin dipped her bow into a wave and came up sharply amidst a wild spray of white-capped water. Canvas boomed deafeningly in the wind, drowning out the shouts of the men perched dangerously in the rigging. Amazingly, however, Scotchy was soon back on the deck beside his captain, face flushed and pale, chest heaving.

"Wot're ya plannin', Toby?"

"Distance, 'tween us an' that ship. 'Ow's she 'andled? 'Oo's 'er cap'n? Will 'e chase us in this mess?"

Scotchy gripped the taffrail and stared into the night. "Cap'n Somersby's 'er master, though I'd reckon the Commodore 'isself is aboard. That one'd foller ya to 'ell and back, if 'e stood a chance o' catchin' ya." The topman nodded slowly. "I reckon we oughta do our best t'git outta 'ere."

"An' if she makes us?"

"Run like the soddin' Devil 'isself is chasin' ya," Scotchy replied. "Norrington won't show ya a spot o' mercy, fer 'elpin' deserters an' escaped prisoners. It'll be the noose fer alla us."

Toby cursed. That was not the sort of assessment he had been hoping for. He could do little while the storm raged around them, but it provided them valuable concealment. If he could only use that concealment to vanish! More sail could be made, but the gale wind would tear the precious canvas to shreds, if not snap a mast in two. Damn.

"She's made us, look there! Comin' about from the wind. By God she's '_uge_!"

"Stow tha', keep yer eyes on yer job!" Toby barked. "Scotchy, wot'd they least 'spect us t'do?"

Scotchy stared at him. "Wot?"

"The ship's yers fer the moment, mate, yew know that bugger better'n the rest a us." The burly sailor thrust out an arm toward the pursuing _Dauntless_. "It's escape or the noose, as yew've said!"

Gulping, the younger man straightened his back. He was a capable sailor, but in command of a whole ship? The responsibility was daunting. "Shake out royals an' sprit sails! Close reef ta'gallants! 'Elmsmen, four points sou'east, cut us 'round behind that bastard! _Careful_, now!"

_Dolphin_ heeled over as the helsmen turned the great wheel. Scotchy braced himself against the deckrail and wiped rain from eyes. Behind him, Toby gave a nod of approval. It was a sensible course, although not one he would have taken himself. But Scotchy knew that ship and how she was handled far better than he.

A scream rent the air and Toby rushed to the deckrail in time to see a splash just off the larboard rail. The cry of "Man o'erboard!" was passed down to the deck, half-drowned out by the howling wind, then _Dolphin_ was on her way up the backside of a wave and the luckless sailor was lost to view. Toby slammed a fist into the rail. Falls from the yards were always a danger, especially during storms, but he had not lost a man in years. Sailors scrambled down the shrouds, only too glad to reach the relative safety of the deck, and one by one, they disappeared below.

"Git below an' see 'oo that bloke was," Toby growled and Scotchy was gone, white-faced with shock. _Dolphin_'s course was set and Scotchy's advice was settled firmly in his head. With any sort of luck, dawn would find them without the bloody Royal Navy close on their backs.

* * *

_A sword flashed in the moonlight, wielded by a walking skeleton. He managed to parry the strike and slide his own sword into the skeleton's ribcage, but it hardly stopped the creature. Letting out an inhuman bellow, the skeleton slashed wildly at him. A musket cracked and the skeleton paused, its head snapped back by the force of the shot. He seized the opporunity and jerked his sword back, nodding curtly at the marine who had fired, only to stare in wide-shock as the man abruptly crumpled to the deck. Another skeleton-pirate came bounding toward him, a bloody sword in hand. What the devil_ were _these monsters?_

Something grabbed his arm and he wheeled about, reflexively swinging his sword as he moved. It was a bony hand clenching his sleeve, shaking him...

"Sir!"

Gillette's eyes snapped open and he imagined for an instant that he was still dreaming. Then the rough shake came again, accompanied by the gruff voice of the boatswain's mate, telling him that he was needed on deck. _In this weather?_ He thought as he struggled out of his hammock to the pitching deck. The boatswain's mate stayed long enough to help him into his coat, then the man was gone. Pausing after buckling on his sword, Gillette rested one hand against the bulkhead. That damn dream was always the same, and always came on storm-torn nights. An omen, or simply lingering bad memory?

One of the marine lieutenants lurched toward him, banging into the screen that seperated the wardroom from the rest of the ship as he tried to regain his balance. In the dim light cast by the lantern in the marine's hand, Gillette managed to recognise him as Collins' first lieutenant. "What's happening, Forsythe?"

"Ship's been sighted, sir. Looks like a sloop." Forsythe made to continue aft, but Gillette's fingers curled around the marine's arm, pulling him to a stop.

"A sloop?"

Forsythe nodded. "Aye sir, a two-master. The Commodore's keen to chase her down."

Could it be the _Dolphin_? It felt almost too much to hope, so soon. It had only been two weeks! Gillette prayed it was the sloop, with MacFarlane and Yardley aboard. He started toward the companion ladder, and made it halfway there before he realised he was dragging poor Forsythe along behind him. Quickly releasing the startled marine officer, Gillette mumbled an apology and fairly leapt up the ladder to the main deck. The wind struck him first, nearly knocking him off his feet. Recovering, albeit barely, the lieutenant hurried past the relative shelter of the quarter deck to the poop, where the Commodore and Captain Somersby stood, both with telescopes to their eyes.

"Have a look, Gillette," Somersby said, shoving the telescope toward him. "Three points to starboard. Mister Prewett estimates she's three hundred yards distant, barely visible but there."

Three hundred yards? It was a wonder the two ships hadn't smashed into each other by now, in this tempest! Gillette peered through the telescope, following the direction Somersby was pointing. Sure enough, another ship was briefly visible through the mist of rain, her position given away by her stern lanterns. "Is that the one, sir?"

"Looks to be. And even if it's not, maybe it'll point us in the right direction!"

"Alter course, Captain. Bring us up behind that sloop, with enough space between us to prevent a collision. Off-watch aloft to trim sail, I want those royals brought in before they're torn apart. We'll be on that sloop before long, with or without them."

"Aye sir," Somersby said, bustling forward to bark out the orders. _Dauntless_' bulk shifted slightly, defying the stirred-up waves as she turned. Sailors called to one another as they made their way into the rigging, but whether it was encouragement or curses they were shouting, Gillette couldn't tell.

"What do we do when we've caught up her, sir?"

"We don't let her out of our sight."

Somersby returned and Gillette handed him the telescope. "Lookout says she's coming about, sir. Sharpish. Like she means to cut across our bows."

"Trying to slip past us, no doubt. Two men on the bow chaser, that should discourage her."

"Aye sir." _Dauntless_' master was gone again. Another officer appeared from the steps, his scarlet coatee and white-trimmed epaulettes standing out like a beacon in the darkness. It was Forsythe, looking nervous.

"What do you want, Lieutenant?" Norrington's voice carried an unmistakable note of annoyance, and the marine swallowed hard.

"Major Collins sent me up, sir. Said something about takin' charge of the men, sir."

A heartfelt curse slipped past Gillette's lips. _Damn_ that Yorkshireman. What could he possibly be thinking? Troubles at home aside, he had a bloody job to do! Norrington glared at Forsythe, as if he blamed the already nervous lieutenant for his superior's actions. Forsythe fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable with being thrust into a position he was not supposed to fill.

"Should I call the men topside, sir?" Forysthe asked, the delicate Irish lilt in his voice overshadowed by his quiet desperation.

"No. No sense in getting their muskets damp, and risk having them not fire when needed," Norrington answered after a long pause. "I would like for you to keep watch on that sloop from the foc's'le. Pass the alarm if she runs out her guns, though God help her crew if they do anything that foolish in this storm!"

Forsythe knuckled his forehead and ran for the steps, only too glad to be given a meaningful task. Shaking his head, the Commodore remarked, "Apparently our discussion earlier had little impact with the good Major. I would prefer not to have another, but it appears I must."

"Sir?" Gillette well-remembered hearing the shouting for nearly half an hour, brought to an abrupt end by angry footsteps on the deck. The silence that followed, however, told him volumes more than the quarrel itself had. Other than a quiet scrape of chair legs, the Commodore had not moved. Was that where Matheson the boatswain had found him, when the sloop had been spotted? Still sitting in his chair, resting his forehead in his hands?

The Commodore gave an irritable wave of his hand. "It's nothing, Lieutenant."

A clatter of feet on the steps heralded the breathless return of Lieutenant Forsythe. "Sir! The sloop, she's cutting 'round behind us!" The marine sucked in a breath and gasped, "Lost sight of her for a bit, when I saw her again, she was comin' round our larboard quarter!"

"Somersby!" Norrington was already moving toward the poop deck rail. "Track that sloop's course, shadow it as close as you can. We can't lose her now!" For a moment, the Commodore turned back toward the two lieutenants. "Gentlemen, both of you on the foc's'le. Forsythe, mark down two men who are crack shots, stand them on deck with burlap 'round their musket pans. This storm appears to be slackening. If we get close enough, I want shots fired across her main deck."

"Aye sir."

Forsythe's scarlet coatee vanished below, while Gillette hurried forward over the slippery deck. What the devil was that sloop's captain _thinking_? Trying to slip past them so closely, in such unpredictable weather, it was madness. _Perhaps that's the point._ A little bit of madness against the strict-thinking Royal Navy... it just might be the trick that helped the sloop get away.

Marines appeared on the foc's'le, two carrying muskets. Forsythe and his two sharp-shooters. The lad was nothing if not efficient. "Reckon it'll be a spot of action in a bit, sir."

Gillette shrugged nonchalantly, as if the prospect was not an exciting one. "Perhaps. Keep a sharp eye on that sloop, Lieutenant. We're coming up on her rather quickly."

And indeed they were, as the wind slowly began abating. Forsythe's two marines leaned on their muskets for balance and watched the sloop slice through the waves. Whether they felt any sort of anticipation or eagerness was impossible to tell. Hopefully they were good shots. Abruptly, the sloop cut about, actually coming toward _Dauntless_. Gillette stared. What was that madman doing?

"Marines!" The lieutenant snapped, needlessly. The two red-coats were already unwrapping the strips of burlap from their muskets. Prompted by a glance from their own lieutenant? Or simply efficient? Belatedly, Gillette took note of the single shoulder knot each man wore. They were both corporals. That explained it. Forsythe levelled a telescope at the other ship, apparently having spotted something. "What's there, Lieutenant?"

"It's Blackburn, sir! That no-good murdering bastard, he's aboard that sloop!"

He snatched the telescope from Forsythe. "And MacFarlane too, snapping out orders like he's been born to it. I'll be damned." Turning toward the two corporals, he snapped, "Present, fire as you bear!"

It was too perfect.

* * *

His feet slipped as he reached the main deck but the hurrying curse of the man behind him helped him recover his balance. Being tall and thin had definite disadvantages, especially in a storm. The powerful wind constantly threatened to bowl him over, to carry him over the side into the churning sea. _Like a twig._ James crossed the deck, his eyes searching the darkness for the dim outline of _Dauntless_. Those bastards couldn't overtake the swifted sloop. They just _couldn't_. His neck tingled and he imagined for an instant he felt the harsh fibers of a rope biting into his skin.

"Blackburn!" MacFarlane's rough hands shoved the Surreyman aft. "Git outta sight, ya dolt!"

What? James let himself get propelled toward the quarterdeck, his head feeling strangely full. There was so much going on, it was dizzying. _Dauntless_ had caught up with them somehow and was drawing uncomfortably close. Those damn marines would be aboard her, no doubt eagerly awaiting the chance to re-capture their former comrade.

_Dolphin_ lurched abruptly and James stumbled, knocking into MacFarlane. His unsteadiness saved his life, for a lead ball that would have buried itself into his chest instead burned across his shoulder. Instinct and reflex kicked in hard and he dropped to the deck, one hand closing over the wound in his shoulder. When the faint whine of further shots did not come, he was back on his feet, aided by a confused MacFarlane.

"They're shootin' at us!"

"Aye, I noticed that. Reckon that was a warning shot, eh?" James quipped, lifting his hand from his shoulder and wincing. The stinging rain was like sharp bits of glass digging the bleeding furrow. Cursing, the Surreyman pushed away from MacFarlane, his footing suddenly sure and determined. Those bastards! If marines on _Dauntless_ were within musket range, so was he.

"Wot're ya doin'?"

"Fightin' back," James snarled, leaping down the ladder to the lower deck. The muskets he, Pintel, and Ragetti had stolen were kept below. He needed one of the long-barreled weapons. Grabbing one from the rack, he hurried to load it. A cartouche hung from a nearby hook and he snatched that as well, slipping the white crossbelt over his head as he dashed back topside. His shoulder burned from the lead ball's graze, and his sleeve was soaking through with blood, making it slightly difficult to heft the musket. MacFarlane stared at him as the former marine planted his feet on the pitching deck and lifted the musket to his injured shoulder.

"Yer damn mad!"

James sucked in a breath and let half of it, steadying his aim before tightening his finger on the trigger. Fire spread through his shoulder as the musket cracked, but he ignored the stabs of pain. Had he hit his target? "Grab a glass, did I hit that bastard?"

Gaping in surprise at the brusque command, the Scotsman hurried to retrieve a telescope while James swiftly reloaded. Like bloody hell those blackguards were going to manage to hit him without some sort of consequence! The only thing that worried him was the powder becoming damp and failing to ignite. Having the musket misfire was unacceptable. MacFarlane returned with the telescope and trained it on the _Dauntless_, searching for some sign of an impact James' shot had had.

" 'Oo were ya aimin' at?"

"One of the blackguards in red," James answered curtly, settling himself for another shot. "On the foc's'le." The musket cracked again and he added, "Maybe that's done it!"

MacFarlane let out a whoop. "Looks like ya've got one, mate! Jes' fell over outta sight. Bloody good bit o' shootin'!"

"It's their doin'!" The Surreyman let out a laugh, carefully covering the pan while he reloaded again. "One more, I reckon, then they'll have the whole bleedin' detachment stood on deck to fire back." He glanced at the Scotsman, a feral grin lighting up his face. "Pick a target and point him out, I'll shoot him down for ya!"

"That one, standin' 'midships. Movin' about though. Can ya 'it 'im?"

His musket cracked a third time, and he lowered it with a triumphant laugh. "Even if I din't, those bastards know I'm about, and not playin'!"

He felt giddy as he hurried below to return the musket to its rack, full of tingling excitement at having struck back at the mightiest ship in the Caribbean without consequence. _Who's bullyin' who now?_ It was a truly glorious feeling to have power and be able to use it. James paused before going topside and examined his still-bleeding shoulder as best he could in the dim lantern light. It wasn't bad, but enough to be a nuisance. Still, he had gotten the marines back and then some for it! MacFarlane was waiting for him when he came topside again, grinning widely. He slapped the Surreyman's uninjured shoulder and led him aft, to where Toby Smith was braced against the larboard rail, watching _Dauntless_ through the slackening rain.

"Wiv this storm lettin' up, we'll be able t'outrun 'er, sure 'nuff," the captain said. "Wot 'appened t'yew then?"

James shrugged, a careless smile on his face. "Had a bit of fun wit' the marines 'cross the way, gave 'em somethin' to remember me to 'em by."

"Well done then. Scotchy, it's time t'get outta 'ere, quick like. No more playin' about. 'Ands aloft, bend everyfin' we got t'the wind. Tha' damn ship ain't gonna catch us, no 'ow!" Toby declared. Whooping again, MacFarlane grabbed James' arm, and the two men sprinted for the mainmast, calling for the rest of the crew. James' earlier fear was entirely forgotten as he climbed up the shrouds, feeling not unlike a monkey. Exhilaration and adrenalin thundered through him, and he could think of nothing but helping _Dolphin_ out-sail the hated _Dauntless_.

"Tha's the ticket, lads, shake out everyfin'!" Billy Smith bellowed, pausing in his work to shake his fist at _Dauntless_. "Show them Navy bastards wot _real_ sailors c'n do!"

In the dying fury of the storm, _Dolphin_ lifted her bow and showed the soundness of her design, slicing neatly through a wave and drawing slowly away from the heavier _Dauntless_. In the night's darkness, the outline of the larger ship would not be in sight for very much longer. With every bit of sail bellying out in the wind, _Dolphin_ came about and slipped past _Dauntless_ one last time, a mocking display of the sloop's superior agility. Hanging over the sloop's foretop mast yard, James smirked. Let those bunglers try to keep up now!

By daybreak, the seas had calmed and _Dauntless_ was nowhere to be seen anywhere on the horizon.


	9. Conversations

After the storm, there are conversations and decisions. To those who have reviewed, thank you.

* * *

The prevailing mood for days after _Dolphin _escaped in the storm was anger. Tension, already straining the air in the Commodore's cabin every evening, rose even higher. Captain Collins remained steadfastly belligerent and had begun taking his meals alone in his small cabin, a clear drawing of battle lines between himself and Commodore Norrington. His lieutenants were thoroughly baffled by their superior's odd behaviour, their shock mirroring that of the _Dauntless_' officers. Gillette couldn't help thinking the captain's sourness was not helped by the wounding of a marine before Dolphin had slipped away. Did he blame the Commodore for not pursuing the sloop more vigorously? In that weather, what could have been done that had not already been?

Thankfully, Collins' first lieutenant had taken over in the Yorkshireman's absence. Thus far, Gillette was impressed, albeit grudgingly, by Forsythe's conduct and competence. He had acted quickly during the storm, when one of his sharp-shooters toppled to the deck as he was reloading his musket, ordering the other corporal to carry the man below. To Gillette's surprise, the lieutenant had then picked up the discarded musket and calmly fired one last shot at _Dolphin_ before the sloop was out of range. Later on, he had delivered his report to the Commodore in a flat tone, not showing a trace of the nervousness he had earlier, on the poop deck.

Tonight, seated across from Forsythe, as the Commodore's steward and the two marine attendants bustled quietly around the table filling glasses, Gillette studied the Irishman. In Collins' pointed removal of himself from the nightly ritual of dining in the Commodore's cabin and a good deal of daily affairs, Forsythe had become, for all intents and purposes, the officer in command of the marines. In sharp contrast to the currently ill-tempered Collns, Forsythe was amiable and thoughtful. Norrington appeared relieved at having Forsythe's receptive ear and fresh outlook on matters, although Gillette had little doubt there would be another 'discussion' between the Commodore and Collins after dinner was ended.

"How is Corporal Hancock faring, Lieutenant? I notice he's out of sick berth at last."

"Indeed he is, sir, though quite against Doctor Finch's wishes." Forsythe's homely face coloured slightly. "I've hardly a mind to order him back."

"Is that so? Rather a reflection of his captain, I shouldn't wonder!"

Gillette briefly closed his eyes, wishing for just one night when sharp comments were not made about the absent Collins. It was becoming tiresome. "More a reflection of Hancock's own resilience, Mister Prewett. It's no small feat to recover from being shot, not the least managing it within mere days." He nodded in Forsythe's direction. "Further, it's hardly fair to Lieutenant Forsythe to speak so ill of his superior in front of him, regardless of his being in command in Major Collins' stead."

"Sorry, sir," Prewett muttered, not appearing sorry at all. "Meant nothing by it."

"I should hope not. Despite his current, odd behaviour, Major Collins is a very capable officer. We're fortunate to have him aboard." Norrington said, drawing surprised gazes his way. Everyone knew of the strained relationship between the two men, and hearing the Commodore speak in Collins' defence was something of a shock.

"But sir, the way he's been behaving, it's bordering on insubordination," Prewett pressed.

"I am dealing with the major as I see fit, Mister Prewett. Any final judgement is mine to make, not yours."

The sailing master lowered his eyes. "Yes, sir."

"Now then, gentlemen, your thoughts on the _Dolphin_. Clearly her captain is a clever sort and quite capable at ship-handling. No doubt MacFarlane and Yardley are telling him how to evade us, since they were once amongst _Dauntless_' crew. With that in mind, a change of tactics is in order."

An uncertain silence followed the Commodore's words and the officers looked at one another apprehensively. Allowing them to make suggestions about what to do next? It was unheard of. Gillette took advantage of the silence to motion for a refill of his glass. What could they do differently that might not be anticipated by those two errant sailors?

"I've an idea, sir," Forsythe ventured. "Not really a good one, but better than nothing."

Norrington eyed the marine thoughtfully. "Go on, Lieutenant."

All eyes were on Forsythe and the Irishman swallowed self-consciously. Apparently he hadn't expected his idea to be so quickly encouraged. "We could set men ashore on Tortuga, sir. In guise, of course. Dolphin is bound to turn up there sooner or later." Forsythe glanced at the other marine lieutenant, a lithe, cheerful-faced Londoner called Cartwright, who piped up eagerly.

"None of _Dauntless_' sailors or marines could manage it, they'd be recognised too easily. Men from the old _Interceptor_, on the other hand, would not be. Lieutenant Forster will most wholeheartedly agree to lend the use of however many marines are requested."

Gillette arched an eyebrow. Cartwright was certainly full of confidence that this plot would well-received by others not privvy to the current discussion, or even having any inkling that they were being neatly manoeuvred into compliance without their express consent. How clever. Clearly these two had discussed the entire plan thoroughly. Anticipating being asked for their thoughts, or prematurely prompted into presenting it? He cleared his throat in preparation to offer his own opinion, but Norrington spoke first.

"And how do you propose getting such a party safely to Tortuga, Lieutenant? _Dauntless_ and _Falcon_ are hardly the best means to such an end."

"Thought of that, sir," Cartwright answered smoothly. "A smaller ship, not unlike _Dolphin_, sailed by a hand-selected crew. Only men in whom there is complete faith, naturally. Instruct them to watch every incoming ship for any sign of _Dolphin_ or parts of her crew. The instant Blackburn, MacFarlane, and Yardley turn up, they're caught up and returned to Port Royal."

"I would also like to arrest whomever has been helping them. It's not enough simply to recapture three deserters. Every person invovled with them in any way will suffer the noose," the Commodore stated coldly. "Your plan is a sound one, Lieutenants, but in some need of refinement. Discuss it further and present it to me on the morrow. That, I believe, will be all for tonight, gentlemen."

_So soon?_ They had barely finished dinner. Gillette rose with the rest of the officers, unable to keep from glancing curiously at the Commodore. It almost seemed like the two marine lieutenants had had an audience with Norrington earlier with their plot, and this evening was simply a more public presentation of it. One of the marine attendants hurried past him before he made it to the companion ladder, his stride indicating a sense of urgency. Fetching Captain Collins for another 'discussion', no doubt.

"Sir, a word, if you don't mind."

God, _now_ what? He was hardly in the mood to entertain idle prattle. "A quick word," he said sharply, turning.

"It's about Corporal Hancock, sir," Forsythe began. "He wants back on the guard roll, outside the Commodore's cabin, in particular. I was wondering, sir, how to handle his request."

"Why are you asking me this, Lieutenant? I do not interfere with the affairs of the marines. That's something for Major Collins to deal with..." his voice trailed off as Forsythe looked away in embarrassment. Oh. That was it. He _had_ asked Collins and been essentially brushed off. _Damn you, Collins._ Gillette sighed. "He is insistent on that task?"

"He is, sir." Forsythe smiled, but the gesture was forced. "I shall deal with it myself. Sorry for troubling you, sir." The marine knuckled his brow and brushed past Gillette, heading for the steps leading below. _Blast._ Most times, he cared not a whit if he had insulted someone's pride or sensibility, but it was hardly Forsythe's fault that his commanding officer was dead-set on being useless. The trials of having authority and being the ship's wise-ass indeed.

"Lieutenant."

Forsythe paused, glancing reluctantly back. It was clear he expected a rebuke. "Sir?"

"As long as that corporal is fit enough to perform the duty, I see no reason why he cannot."

The marine's only acknowledgement was a flash of a smile and a curt nod, then he continued on his way below. Rubbing his forehead, Gillette headed to the poop deck, where he could find a small measure of peace until the watch changed. Or, he thought with a sigh, until Collins and Norrington began exchanging words. _Again._ God, would that almost-nightly bickering ever end?

* * *

"You sent for me, sir?" Collins asked dully. Norrington turned away from the stern gallery windows and let his eyes drift over the sullen-faced Captain of Marines. The man looked a mess. His scarlet coat was rumpled, his cravat was loosened, and it looked as though he had spilled ink on his breeches. The Commodore shook his head.

"Take a chair, Major."

The sharp brown eyes missed nothing in Collins' stiff movements as he sank into the nearest chair. It seemed as though all his energy had drained from him. What sort of news had Collins received from home, that he was reduced to such unusual, careless behaviour? Moving to a chair himself, Norrington paused before sitting, wondering if it was wise to interfere with the marine's personal affairs. Collins appeared uncomfortable at being summoned to the cabin yet again. Who could blame him, given how badly previous such visits had gone? Never mind that the cause of said visits was his own conduct.

"Would you care for a drink?" The Commodore said after a moment, choosing to try a different tack than he had other nights. He was determined to avoid another fruitless shouting match. "Something to settle your nerves?"

Collins' gaze jerked to meet Norrington's, interrupting his study of the table. "Yes, sir. Thank you." He reached for the glass offered to him, his fingers trembling silghtly. For a long moment, Collins stared down at the amber liquid without drinking, "What's this about, sir? Another verbal keel-hauling before I'm stripped of command and rank?"

"Thus far, you're bringing that fate upon yourself."

"I have been, haven't I." It was a statement, leaving Norrington no doubt that the man knew precisely what he was doing to his career. Collins tossed back the contents of the glass and sighed. "Don't suppose it's right to keep myself in worse shape than my sloppiest marine, eh?"

"I imagine that's your choice, although it's entirely unbecoming of a capable officer," the Commodore replied. "I shall come directly to the point. Your conduct of late has been appalling, Major. If not for your two lieutenants, there would be no leadership of the detachment at all. It's bad enough you have begun shunning evening meals with the rest of the officers, but you have neglected the basic duties that are required of a Captain of Marines. Just yesterday, Lieutenant Forsythe came to me asking about allowing the men - _your_ men - to do their wash on the foc's'le. That is something you are responsible for arranging, Major. I'm glad at least that Forsythe has the presence of mind to ask for help when he needs it!"

The last remark was a deliberate barb aimed at Collins' own stubborn refusal to seek out assistance for whatever was plaguing him. It appeared to have a definite effect, as the marine snapped his head up to glare at the Commodore. Good, at least the man was reacting to _something_. "My personal affairs are no one's concern. sir!"

"They are when they reduce you to a dishevelled mess, worse than your sloppiest marine," Norrington shot back, feeling a surge of guilty triumph when Collins' anger wilted and he sagged back into his chair. Leaning forward to press his advantage, Norrington said, "Captain Somersby has already told me what is behind your behaviour, but I should like to hear it from you. I prefer learning of difficulties my officers are having from the officer concerned, not another!"

Collins heaved out a heavy sigh and cradled his head in his hands. He seemed more weary than Norrington had ever seen him, weighted down by whatever ugly secret he was keeping. What could possibly cause a man to become so upset that he turned away from his responsibilities, essentially abandoning the men who clearly loved him? The marines were as bewildered by the unexplainable change in their captain as the other officers were. Norrington had heard them quietly - and not so quietly, at times - discussing the matter. There was little doubt as to the red-coats' loyalty to their captain, but Collins appeared to have forgotten that.

"Somersby already told you, eh?" Collins pinched the bridge of his nose, not waiting for an acknowledging word or nod. "Family troubles, is a good way of putting it. Her damn brothers..." his voice fading into a whisper, then silence. "Sorry sir."

Norrington waited. There was something else, there always was. After another lingering silence, Collins looked up at his superior with open distress on his face. Excellent, his tactic was working. "I don't know what to _do_, sir. It's a bloody mess." Abruptly, the captain stood up, a refilled glass of port in hand. The Commoodore held his silence, watching as Collins paced restlessly on the other side of the table. Somehow, he knew the Yorkshireman would eventually come out with the whole story. It was simply a matter of waiting him out. He was not disappointed.

"It's her damn _brothers_. All three of them, a meddling lot of fools. If not for them I'd still be home and not in this sweltering, God-forsaken hell-hole, cast aside to rot because they paid off some stuffy bastard in Whitehall!" Collins' lip curled back and he glowered at the glass in his hand, as if it was somehow to blame. "It's not like I didn't _tell_ her this would happen. And here now, it has!"

"Major?"

Collins tipped the glass up and swallowed its contents. His blue-grey eyes appeared duller than when he had first arrived, when he turned his weary gaze to the Commodore. "This what you called me here for, sir? Get me to bare my soul so you can have your Captain of Marines back?" The bitterness in his voice was like a force. Shuddering, Collins looked down at the glass in his hand. "That's about as much use as I am, to anybody!"

"Control yourself, Major!" Norrington snapped, rising to his feet as the shards of glass tingled to the wooden deck. Red-faced, Collins turned away, his hands balled into fists. "I'll not have -"

"It's not enough to be a good officer, is it, sir? Not when there are expectations to live up to, an undeserved repuation to uphold," Collins interrupted, facing the Commodore abruptly. His hawkish features were flushed with anger, although it was hard to tell who that anger was directed at. "My marines think I'm without fault, incapable of failing. Bloody _look_ at me, if this isn't failing, nothing is!"

"Every man has a breaking point," Norrington said gently. "What did the letter say?"

The cabin felt suddenly smaller as Collins slowly withdrew the crumpled parchment from his coat. He stared at it for a long, silent moment before holding it out. Norrington took the letter and read the elegant script that filled the single page. When he looked up again, Collins was filling another glass with port, studiously avoiding the Commodore's gaze.

"Cheerful stuff, eh?" The Yorkshireman attempted a smile that quickly slipped from his face. "I hardly know what to think of it myself, let alone what to do about it. Other than to return home, which is impossible until this commission is over!"

There was truth in that. There was over a year left in _Dauntless_' commission, and then she would either be sent to another assignment or paid off. Norrington laid the letter onto the table, face-down. The captain was in a bind, that was sure. Small wonder he had been in such a foul, reclusive mood of late. Collins gulped down the port and retrieved the letter, saying, "It's hardly worth moping about over, only a newborn son who don't know he's got a father." He barked a short laugh. "Hardly any different from any of my marines, really."

"I understand your feeilng, Major, but there are one hundred and twenty-seven men aboard who are relying on you. Whatever difficulties have been related to you, you need to leave it in your cabin. Lieutenant Forsythe is a sharp and competent enough officer, but he's not ready to be in command. That's _your_ job."

"Do you think I don't know that, sir? Out here, my marines are all I have."

The Commodore lifted an eyebrow. "By your recent behaviour, that's hard to believe."

"Your confidence is heartening, sir." Collins attempted another smile, and again failed. "I have, however, several options available. Once Blackburn is caught and shot like the bloody cowardly rat he is, I shall have reached my decision. You will, of course, be informed of my choice directly."

"Major?" What the devil was he talking about?

"I thank you for the talk, sir. There are some letters I need to write. Good night, sir."

Norrington rubbed his forehead as the marine left the cabin, hoping that the 'talk' was enough to shake Collins out of his gloom. Personal troubles aside, there were more pressing matters to contend with. If Collins persisted without change, he would have to be replaced.

* * *

"A word, sir?"

Lieutenant Forysthe set down his straight-razor and nodded, waving the other marine into the crowded space. "Of course. You needn't ask, nor stand on ceremony so religiously, Arthur. We're in the same bloody wardroom you know."

"Yes," Cartwright said. "Yes I know. I'd like to know what you propose to do about Captain Collins. Standing on ceremony or not, Colin, he's heading directly for a dismissal, the way he's going. Think of the censure he'll face, when we're back in Port Royal. God only knows what'll happen when he's packed off to England in disgrace!"

"Sit down and have a glass, before you work yourself into a proper fit. There's a lad." Forsythe quickly wiped his freshly-shaven face with a cloth as Cartwright helped himself to a generous portion of brandy. "What are you on about, then?"

Cartwright gasped at the fiery bite of the brandy. "_Captain Collins._ I heard him and the Commodore talking after we were dismissed. Far be it from me to eavesdrop but I couldn't help it! I was standing on the poop deck and I reckon one of the stern gallery windows was open. I heard everything, Colin, it's a disaster about to happen, I swear it!"

"Slow _down_, you've quite lost me. What is it you heard?" The Irishman settled into the only chair in the cabin while Cartwright perched atop his seachest. "Did the Commodore finally crack him, then?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Calm down and tell me what you heard, Arthur, for God's sake."

The other lieutenant shivered, gulping a second inch of brandy. "It's family troubles, A new son, to be precise. That's not even the half of it either." Cartwright leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Do you know, he's not at this posting willingly?"

"Neither is anybody else aboard. There are precious few volunteers for a Caribbean assignment."

"No, I mean he was forced into it. His wife's brothers paid somebody off in the Admiralty."

"What?"

Cartwright nodded. "Aye, pretty under-handed if you ask me. What could possibly be so bad that his wife's _brothers_ paid to have him sent off?" Refilling his glass a third time, the Londoner shook his head wonderingly. "The poor bloke."

"Hardly a thing we can do about it, Arthur. I don't know why you came in here thinking I could suggest anything. I'm only his first lieutenant, I have no real power." Forsythe shrugged and sipped his own brandy. "What did Lieutenant Gillette have to say about their conversation?"

"Lieutenant Gillette?"

"Aye, he was heading toward the poop deck after dinner. He must've left when you went up there."

"Must've."

Forsythe leaned the chair back and propped his feet up on his hammock. "Hmm. What do you about Blackburn, then? Always a quiet sort. Never thought he'd go off and do anything like that. Simply bloody unbelievable."

"What _about_ him? He's a deserter, and a murderer on top of that. We'll catch his treacherous carcass and he'll hang. It's that simple," Cartwright growled and Forsythe lifted an eyebrow at his friend. What the devil was wrong with the Londoner? He had been acting out of sorts ever since the storm. Ah, yes. Corporal Hancock. He was in Cartwright's detachment. _So was Blackburn. My God, the poor bastard._

"I'm sorry Arthur. I had forgotten," Forsythe said. "It was, is, the same for me. Haverson and Sergeant Branning were my lads. At least Hancock survived, eh?"

Cartwright lurched to his feet, his handsome face turning pink. "How can you be so calm about this? God, Colin, two of your lads _died_, murdered by that, that _bastard_. And you can sit there and not feel a bloody shred of remorse or anger?"

"Not a day goes by that I don't," the Irishman told his friend softly. "Branning was a first-class sergeant and Haverson was simply a steady lad, as hard-working as any other. You don't think I want to see Blackburn hung any less than you do? My God, I'd like nothing better than to slide a bayonet between his ribs myself, like he did to Haverson. But revenge is not ours to pursue, Arthur. _Justice._ For Branning, Haverson, Frazier, and Bartlett. Ask any of the lads, they're all looking forward to watching Blackburn make that last walk to the noose. Ask them why, they'll name off one of those names, either dead or wounded. Devil what else the blue-jackets tell you, this whole hunt is for Blackburn, not those two sailors."

The Londoner stood still, his eyes clouding over. Without a word he quit the small cabin. Forsythe sighed and rested his head in his hands, listening while Cartwright's hurried footsteps faded as the younger man went forward. "Too young, he's _too bloody young!_"

Hidden in the shadows on the other side of the thin screen of the cabin, Gillette bowed his head slightly and closed his eyes.

* * *

In the stillness of his cabin, he could hear every creak and groan of the might ship's timbers and the faint murmur of voices on the other side of the door. The shattered remains of the drinking glass lay on the deck, untouched. A reminder of Collins' helpless anger. Demonstrative of the overall feeling of the other officers, brought to fierce life by the marine's brief moment of temper? It was hard to say. Dwyer, his steward, had peeked in after the glass had burst against the bulkhead, but Norrington waved him away.

Now, he felt drained. The trials being presented by his officers were wearying. Between Collins' moodiness and Prewett's scathing resentment, he was beginning to wonder if the entire hunt for the deserters was nothing more than a fool's errand. The three men were determined not to be caught, while the marines were equally determined to catch them. _That Blackburn, at any rate._ Norrington shook his head. What could possibly drive a marine to such extreme actions? Forsythe and Cartwright had not been able to offer any explanations, although he suspected they knew more than they were letting on.

The bell pealed from the foc's'le and the distant patter of feet announced the changing of the watch. Eight bells. The perfect time to make a change in _Dauntless_' course. A return to Port Royal, to begin implementing Forsythe's scheme. A fleeting smile crossed the Commodore's face. Under normal circumstances he would not seriously entertain such a daring, outlandish plot, but the two lieutenants knew their quarry better than he. When the pair of them had first presented it to him, they had discussed it and worked out every possible flaw. The solicitation of suggestions during dinner had been a farce, a means of sounding out the other officers. It had hardly been a surprise that Forsythe had been the only one to speak up, even if he was following the earlier-established script.

There were, obviously, more than a few risks involved with the plan. Those men who were chosen would be sent to that stinking, wretched hive of scum and villainy known as Tortuga without any hope of rescue should they be discovered. If as many went as Forsythe proposed, it would be a significant loss if the worst came to pass. A whole marine squad's worth, as the lieutenant had put it. _And then some._ A daring plan, but one almost certain to succeed if left long enough. It was worth trying, anyway.

And what to do with Collins? The Yorkshireman was teetering on the brink of dismissal. However sympathetic he might be to the man's plight, Norrington could not have any man under his command who did not pull his own weight. Not even a somewhat indispensable Captain of Marines. The Commodore rubbed his eyes wearily. At least Gillette was his usual, snappish self. It was comforting to know that something had not changed.

Vengeance was a sour fruit, he thought. Sought after like gold by men who had suffered a grievous offence, but rarely satisfying when finally attained. Norrington had little doubt that Blackburn and his two fellow deserters would be caught eventually. What sort of lingering bitterness would taint the marine battalion and _Dauntless_' crew once the deserters had been executed? He dared not think of it. Too far in the future, too likely to cloud his judgment. But then, the search for clarity was a never-ending one, wasn't it?

A clatter in his steward's working-space was punctuated by a string of Welsh curses, interrupting his musings. Norrington smiled faintly. He understand none of that wistful, haunting language, but Dwyer was always muttering proverbs and bits of old folk songs in his native tongue whenever he thought no one was paying him any mind. Most of the time, his steward had the right saying to fit any circumstance. Would he know what to say now, if he was privy to the Commodore's thoughts?

"Dwyer."

The sullen-faced Welshman appeared silently, as ever. "Sur?"

"What do you think of all this?" The Commodore asked, folding his hands on the table. He didn't need to explain his question, as he knew the Welshman would already understand. Dwyer's keen pale blue eyes studied him for a moment before the steward answered. His reply was not entirely what Norrington expected.

"A watched pot ne'er boils, sur. Dunna reckon settin' lads in Tortuga will turn naught up, if they're a day or a month there." Shrugging, the steward shuffled forward to begin clearing away the abandoned drinking glasses. Norrington pursed his lips and considered that. It was a fair, succinct assessment.

"I rather think it's our best chance."

"If thou thinks it, sur." Dwyer returned to his working-space with an armful of glasses, carefully closing the door behind him. Such a simple bit of wisdom, but it resounded in Norrington's mind. _A watched pot never boils._ But an unwatched pot overflows. Which was the more dangerous of the two? He couldn't simply sit by and do nothing. That was entirely unacceptable. Perhaps he would take the chance, and trust Forsythe's cleverness. It was certainly more promising than combing the endless expanse of the Caribbean for one sloop.

The Commodore stood up. Dwyer's quietly offered opinion faded from his mind as he strode purposefully to the quarterdeck, where the sailing master and the officer of the watch stood. Both men offered him salutes at his approach.

"Evening, sir," Groves greeted, while Prewett offered a jerky nod and turned his attention back to the compass he was studying.

"Change of course, Mister Prewett," Norrington announced, noting the sailing master's surprise with carefully concealed pleasure. "We are returning to Port Royal."

"But sir - "

"Port Royal, Mister Prewett. We are going home."

Prewett nodded stiffly and moved to give the instruction to the helmsman. Lifting an eyebrow curiously, Groves cast a glance at the Commodore.

"Are we going to put Forsythe's plan into action, sir?"

"I am considering it, Lieutenant."

Groves smiled. "Understood, sir. It's a sound plot. Definitely worth attempting, anyway!"

That was it, then. Norrington said nothing in reply but Groves' comment was the last bit of convincing he needed. Dauntless heeled over slightly as she was guided into a wide starboard turn. Whether or not he was making the right choice would not become apparent for some time.

"I shall be in my cabin," he said abruptly, and moved toward the companion way. Dwyer had already removed the table and hung up his hanging cot. An efficient sort, was the steward. Norrington removed his hat and studied it, thinking of everything it represented. Gold lace trim, the visible privilege of rank. Also the burden of responsibility that sometimes felt like it might crush him beneath its weight. Chasing deserters and pirates, tending to the mess made by an ineffectual Captain of Marines, choosing between a more personal desire for vengeance and a loud outcry for the pursuit of a murderous former marine. _And always that damn Sparrow, hovering mockingly on the edge of my reach._ His pride had been savagely bruised by that smug pirate. Never mind he had managed to escape from his own hanging. The current mission aside, hunting down Sparrow was his main goal.

"Damn."

"Sur?" Dwyer poked his head into the cabin, startling the Commodore. He had not realised he'd spoken aloud.

"Nothing. Thank you, Dwyer."

The steward withdrew silently, just as he'd entered. Sighing, Norrington shed his coat. Perhaps, if he baited the trap well enough, he could catch both his quarries. Wouldn't that be something to celebrate, then? It was something to work toward.


	10. The Whaler

Apologies for the wait, I was having trouble with getting more chapters written.

* * *

Mid-afternoon sun beat down on the bared backs of the _Dolphin_'s crew, as they repainted the sloop's hull. The gleaming buff colour covered over the scrapes and gouges sustained in months without a fresh coat of protective paint. To Samuel, it brought to mind many times _Dauntless_' crew had been suspended along both sides of the mighty ship on planks held up by stout ropes, endlessly repainting the hull. At least now he was glad to do the work! 

He paused in mid-stroke to glance over at Blackburn, who was covered with splotches of paint. The poor lad had never painted anything like a ship in his life and it showed. Grinning, Samuel dipped his brush into the bucket and flicked buff-coloured paint at the former marine.

"Hey, wot's that for?"

"Bit o' fun. Don't act like ya've never 'ad fun before!" Samuel made another few strokes with his brush before Blackburn recovered himself. Cool drops of paint splattered against his shoulder and the side of his head and he looked over in time to catch Blackburn's triumphant grin as the other man quickly carried on working. Clever bastard! Samuel gave his brush a quick jerk and returned the favour.

Suddenly there was paint flying between the two men, soon followed up by Samuel grabbing the brush from Blackburn's grip and smearing the heavily-coated bristles across the former marine's face. From the deck, Toby Smith called out irritably at the waste of expensive paint while the rest of the crew cheered the two mock-combatants. Samuel laughed as Blackburn managed to wrestle his brush back and drag the bristles over the Scotsman's back and side. The carpenter's bench they were sitting on abruptly tipped backwards when the paint-throwing match turned into a fight for the one remaining brush and both of them tumbled into the water.

"I can't swim!" Blackburn sputtered, as he thrashed back to the surface. Samuel grabbed one of the brushes floating nearby and gave the former marine a quick swipe with it.

"Oi, whazzat yer doin' then?"

"Git up 'ere, yew two wastrels. Ship sighted, looks like prize!" Billy Smith called down from the foc's'le. Samuel gave Blackburn a final smear with the paint-brush before paddling awkwardly for the side-ladder. The rest of the crew laughed and cheered as he pulled himself through the entry port and he looked down at himself. Streaks and spatters of buff paint cris-crossed his body, where it had not been washed away by his brief dip in the sea.

" 'Ey, 'ow fearsome a lad d'I look, then?" The topman grinned, reaching down to help Blackburn onto the deck. "An' this poor bastard, 'oo says 'e can't swim!"

"You're a blackguard."

Samuel slapped the other man's bare, paint-splattered shoulder. "Aye, mate, yer gonna do. Let's us get sail shook out, then, lads. That ship ain't gonna wait fer us to catch 'er!" He leaped toward the mainmast shrouds amid eager whoops from the other sailors. To his surprise, Blackburn was not far behind him when he reached the main topsail yard. "Ya learn quick, lad! 'Ow quick can ya loose a sail, then?"

"I'll show you!" Blackburn declared, stunning the Scotsman by clambering onto the yardarm itself and dashing out along it until he reached the middle of it. Smirking, Blackburn flopped onto his belly and slid himself down until his feet reached the footrope suspended under the yardarm. "Don't just stand there, get workin'!"

"Yer a regular bleedin' _monkey_. When'd ya learn to do that? I thought ya was scairt of 'eights!"

"Practise. Billy made me climb up and down 'til I were bloody worn out. Reckon it just came to me." Blackburn shrugged. "Wot d'you suppose that other ship is haulin'?"

"Could be anythin'. 'Opefully somethin' worthwhile. If there is, we're takin' it!"

"Takin' it? I thought we was gonna inspect - "

Samuel laughed and reached out to muss Blackburn's hair. "That wot ya've been thinkin' all this time? Mate, this 'ere's a raidin' ship. Toby ain't no respectable merchant, no 'ow."

"But - "

"Come on, back t'the deck wiv ya, git yer musket an' 'urry back up 'ere."

Grumbling, Blackburn made his way toward the end of the yardarm, and Samuel returned to the cross-trees, climbing to the main royal yard. That high above the ship, he could see everything for miles. It was his favourite place. The other ship had spotted them and was attempting to run before the wind, but she was heavy. He could see that even from that distance. Just left a rich port? He rubbed his hands together eagerly. Whatever that ship was carrying, it promised to be a rich prize!

"Wot am I supposed to do with this bloody thing?" Blackburn called up from the main top.

"Git up 'ere an' git comf'table. When we're close 'nuff yer gonna shoot apart their crew."

"That's murder!"

Samuel eyed the approaching Surreyman impassively. "An' wot ya done t'yer mates in Port Royal ain't murder?"

Thankfully Blackburn shut up, throwing his leg over the yardarm and unslinging his musket without a word. Samuel shook his head. The lad would figure it out soon enough. He had killed men without hesitation during the escape from Port Royal. This was no different. The Scotsman shivered with excitement. Only a couple of hours and they'd be upon that ship. _Then_ Blackburn would see what _Dolphin_ was used for!

* * *

James squinted down the barrel of his musket, following the movements of one of the whaling ship's crew. He had fired a warning shot straight down into the whaler's deck, almost at the captain's feet. The abrupt splintering of wood next to his boots had convinced the man that heaving to and cooperating were in his best interests. A wise choice. James' next shot would have lodged itself into the captain's skull. 

The rest of _Dolphin_'s crew were lining the starboard rail, cutlasses in hand, ready to leap aboard the other ship. _And loot her._ He suppressed a shudder. That sort of action felt too bold for him. It felt like there was a tidal wave of things crashing over him, that he had to learn and adapt to. Sheer madness. Almost enough to make him wish he'd stayed in the marines. _Almost._

"Blackburn! Git down 'ere!"

What? James stared down at the deck, searching out his hailer. It was Toby Smith, waving a boarding axe. Slinging his musket across his back, James inched back toward the mast and began working his way down the shrouds. What good could he do on deck, where he couldn't see everything going on aboard the whaler? He wouldn't be able to pick off any potential threats half as well, or quickly.

His bare feet thudded onto the deck and he lifted an eyebrow at Toby, opening his mouth to question the captain's intentions. Toby did not give him the chance to speak, jabbing a finger toward the ladder leading below.

"Swap yer musket fer a sword, most o' yew are goin' aboard."

The Surreyman hurried below decks, aided on his way by a rough push. What the devil good was he with a sword? Musket and bayonet, yes. Sword, most certainly _no_. The sword Ragetti had stolen from that corporal still hung from its peg, next to where the three purloined muskets were kept. James slipped the white crossbelt over his head as he dashed topside again, just in time to watch the rest of the boarding party surge over the rail onto the whaler. Finally close enough to leap the distance, eh?

He had the benefit of a running start, and his long legs helped him clear _Dolphin_'s deck rail and the whaler's without difficulty. Apparently somebody had noticed that he was gone from the royal yard, for a spirited resistance to the boarders had broken out. James immediately wished he'd kept his musket. The sword in his hand was like a foreign tool. He hadn't the slightest idea how to use it! A wildly yelling sailor came charging at him, swinging a boarding axe. _Oh shite!_ James reacted instinctively, smashing the hilt of the sword into the sailor's head as he would have done with a musket butt. The man toppled over like a pole-axed cow. Well, that hadn't gone so badly. Or maybe not, he amended quickly, as another sailor appeared to take the first one's place.

"Bloody Jesus!" The Surreyman burst out, knocked flat onto his back by the hulking sailor's bone-jarring punch. He _really_ wished he'd kept his musket. At least he could have shot the bastard before being bowled over so quickly. His ears rang like church bells and it felt like the entire right side of his face was fully afire. "_Bastard!_" Somehow he managed to stagger to his feet. The sailor leered at him and James rushed at him, holding the sword out with both hands, like it was a musket. Another tooth-rattling blow, but at least this time he was expecting it. He spun with the force of the punch, stabbing at the sailor as he fell. _Just like a bayonet._ The blade grated against bone and he released his grip on the sword, landing on the deck with a _whuff_. For a moment, he was afraid the sailor had pulled the sword from wherever it had stuck in him and was advancing to use the blade on its previous owner. Then he looked up and saw the sailor gaping down at the weapon lodged into his torso, before sagging to the deck like a wilting sail.

"Get up, Twig! We got 'em!"

MacFarlane's grinning face appeared through the blur that had drifted across his vision and he was lifted off the deck. Dizzy at the sudden change of position, James stumbled forward to clumsily retrieve his sword and wipe the blade clean on the dead sailor's shirt. What next, then, if they had beaten the whaler's crew?

" 'Urry up mate, let's see wot's below!" MacFarlane fairly dragged the former marine toward the ladder leading to the whaler's hold. Pintel and Ragetti were keeping the surrendered crew clustered by the foc's'le, triumphant smirks on their faces. His head felt ready to explode and his sense of balance was decidedly lacking. He felt like a staggering drunk as he stumbled along behind MacFarlane. The stink of something he'd never smelled before smothered him as they reached the hold. What the hell was kept down here?

"Watch yer step mate, it's bloody slippery down 'ere." The Scotsman warned.

"Wot the sodding - " James began, setting his foot down in something slimy. He slipped promptly and flailed as whatever he'd stepped in oozed forward, carrying him with it. The Surreyman's feet suddenly left the deck and he tumbled backward, smacking his already-throbbing head on the hard-wooden planks. MacFarlane's helpless laughter was the backdrop of the gradual fading to black of his world.

* * *

"Wot're yew plannin' to do wiv 'im?" 

Toby Smith stuffed a fresh pinch of tobacco into his cheek and sighed. "Can't keep 'im aboard, 'e's too dangerous. Wiv the Navy 'ard after 'im as they is, we're all dead men t'be caught wiv 'im."

"But we can't just dump 'im someplace!" Samuel protested, pushing away from the bulkhead he had been leaning against. " 'E told me 'bout that meetin' ya 'ad. Wiv that Gibbs bastard. Gonna 'and 'im over to them bleedin' cut-throats, eh?"

"Yew did _wot_, Toby?"

" 'Ey now, I done nuffin' yet. Jes' a biness meetin', feelin' out the lad's suitability. 'E took it bad, like I figgered 'e would. Reckon 'e's come round a good bit since then!"

Billy scowled. "It ain't righ', Toby. 'E's one o' the lads now, pullin' 'is own weight an' then some. Did yew see 'im on tha' whaler? I've never seen the like!"

"Aye, I saw 'im. All the more reason t'send 'im to Sparrow's crew. At least Sparrow'd be able t'keep the lad outta the Navy's sight better'n we can!"

"It's bloody mad. I don't like it. Sparrow ain't no kinda trustable fellow. 'E'd turn Blackburn out the instant it's in 'is best interests," Billy argued. " 'E's safer 'ere!"

His brother spat a wad of used-up tobacco into a nearby pail and shook his head. "No, Bill, 'e ain't. 'Member the storm? _Dauntless_ is righ' on our tail. She'll catch us nex' time, then we're in it. I can't 'ave 'im aboard fer too much longer. Already done more'n I agreed anyway."

"Sod the agreement!" Samuel burst out. "Blackburn's one o' me mates, I'll not 'ave 'im tossed t'some bloody scoundrel's crew like a bit o' rubbish!"

_Dolphin_'s master turned a hard-eyed glare to the Scotsman. "Yew can go wiv 'im then! Old mates or not, I ain't lettin' no runaway madman put me own neck at risk. Ain't the way I do biness, Scotchy, an' yew bloody well knows it!" He glared at his brother next. "An' yew! I'd've figgered at least yew'd be fer the idea, considerin' it's in the lad's best interest!"

"In 'is best interest me arse! Yer lookin' after yerself, s'all. No bleedin' wonder yew can't keep a steady crew," Billy sneered, folding his arms over his chest.

"Git out, the both o' yew. We're sailin' fer Tortuga, an' Blackburn's joinin' Sparrow's crew. _An' that's bloody well final!_"

The other two men glared sourly at Toby before stomping out, with Samuel making a point to slam the door behind him.


	11. Return

This chapter was co-written with Hildwyn. Many thanks to her for handling the Navy men, as she does it so well.

* * *

It was a cruel sense of irony that the time when one most wanted to do nothing but return to the warm welcoming comforts of home, that was the time when it was the least viable option. Not that one joined the Navy in the expectation that they would be coddled and mothered, or that things would be, God forbid it ever be such, easy. However…there were times when easy would be good, appreciated, and a damn bit more useful to the rest of the crew.

It was the mark of a good commander that he could keep his crew in line, and having the crew in line was essential to a warship if it were to ever see action and wish to meet it prepared and worthy of their military lineage. However, it was becoming increasingly apparent to many of the crew that something was going on with the officers. The marine officers were on edge, excepting Collins, whom very little had been seen of lately by anyone, and the sea officers were almost…jumpy. The midshipmen, often too interested in the gossip and goings-ons of the officers for their own good, had at least the decency to remove themselves from the current matter somewhat, at least now they weren't caught dawdling by when running errands on the slim hope that they would overhear something, when all they ended up hearing was a sharp word and being pushed off to continue their tasks.

The fidgetiness of the officers was starting to transfer over into fidgety crewmembers…most definitely not a welcome nor permitted occurrence. As he had gone below decks on his own matters, he had been greeted by the unusual silence of the idlers…unusual because they were usually gossiping about something, and unusual because of how quickly they quieted down when he, or probably any officer, was near them. He could only guess what they were talking about, he thought rather darkly. If this whole bloody mess didn't get sorted out sooner or later, then this would only get worse.

Since they were nearing land, and preparations had to be made for the disembarkation of certain individuals in Port Royal, Gillette sent for one of the midshipmen to inform the Commodore of their situation. The commodore was in his cabin, as he had been secluded there for most of the duration of their journey…not unusual given their trying and rather saddening circumstances at being out of port in the first place to begin with.

"Sir!" The midshipman said, brushing his hand by his tricorne quickly, "Commodore Norrington sends his compliments, and says that he trusts you to bring us into port and make all necessary preparations."

Sighing, Gillette gave a curt nod and the young midshipman was gone. Any other time, he would be pleased at such a demonstration of faith but this time it felt more like being placed in charge of a funeral detail. Still, it was a task expected of him and he had to see it done. Thankfully Captain Somersby was below decks, attempting to get the recalcitrant Collins to tidy himself up. That left Gillette with unfettered control over _Dauntless_.

"Off-watch aloft to trim topgallants," the lieutenant called out and the boatswain's mate gave a trill on his pipe. Sailors began climbing the shrouds to carry out the command, as efficient a crew as any officer could hope for. Gillette lifted a telescope to his eye and studied the harbour that was their final destination. In barely half an hour, they'd be safely within the bay. As before, the notion was unsettling when it crossed his mind. Struggling to cast aside his doubt, the lieutenant lowered the telescope abruptly. This was no time to entertain wayward thoughts anyway. He had a job to do and by God he would see it done.

* * *

Sailing wasn't typically a taxing enterprise. Norrington always found it refreshing and invigorating to be at sea, however Collins' inexcusably slovenly behaviour and all the associated difficulties that came with hunting one of your own, nay, one who had been of your own, tested even the most hale of spirit. He thought of himself as more than able to withstand hardship and trial, but the current mess was causing him to doubt. That was most unbecoming and unwelcome, but facing the reality that there might be criminals that he could not bring to justice was exceptionally difficult. Nigh on impossible, really.

A soft knock at the door of his cabin disturbed his thoughts and a grimace flitted across his face. "Come," he called, striving to keep irritation from his voice. _What now_, he thought as the acting-Captain of Marines peered warily around the door. "Stop skulking about and come in."

Forsythe entered quickly then, a slight pink tinge colouring his face at the sharp rebuke. The marine corporal standing watchful guard outside the cabin tugged the door shut with a forceful _thump_ and the lieutenant gave a start. Norrington lifted an eyebrow at the marine officer's unusual jitteriness, waiting for the man to speak and reveal the reason for his presence. At length, the Irishman stammered, "I was wondering, sir, when you would like me to have the men muster on deck, for going back ashore?"

"Straightaway, Lieutenant. We shall be back in the harbour in less than half an hour." Silently, Norrington cursed the man who was supposed to be making those decisions. Part of him was sympathetic to Forsythe. However quick-witted and confident the man was, he was not yet fit for the level of command that had been thrust upon him. Major Collins had neglected his duties just a little too much for Norrington's liking and he would make sure the marine officer was suitably punished. "Your companies will be the first ashore. I will be holding a brief meeting with my officers after you and your marines are gone."

"What about Major - "

The Commdore lifted a hand, interrupting Forsythe's question before he could finish. "Major Collins will be remaining aboard _Dauntless_

to oversee the taking on of fresh provisions. You are in temporary command of the marine battalion, Lieutenant. Attend to whatever affairs you must, and make sure that the necessary number of volunteers for that Tortuga plan of yours. I'd like a meeting with your two lieutenants, the Colour-Sergeant, and the marine who will be in charge when I arrive at the fort. A runner will be sent round to fetch you. That is all, Lieutenant." Norrington deliberately turned his attention back to the papers spread out on the table before, signalling the end of the conversation. It was just as well that Forsythe had come to see him. He would have sent a sailor to fetch him before long, to give him those same orders.

The door clicked faintly as it closed behind the departing marine and Norrington looked up again, his expression a curious mixture of regret and disgust. There was more than enough on his mind without adding the unwanted stress of dealing with the moody Collins. He had to reprimand the man, however much he didn't want to. It was one more unpleasant task that fell only to the most senior officer, and it was unfortunate that he was that officer.

"Corporal Hancock," the Commodore called out abruptly. There was no better time to deliver a harsh rebuke to Collins than the present, before he took it into his head to re-assume command of the companies aboard. The marine corporal who had taken it upon himself to guard the door of his cabin entered, stamping his heels smartly. There was a noticeable lump under the man's scarlet coat, the bandages that covered his shoulder where he had been shot. How did he stand it? "My compliments to Major Collins, and would he join me here at once."

"Aye sir." The corporal saluted, the movement somewhat awkward due to his injury, and was quick to exit. Norrington heard him call out roughly to some other marine and pass the word along. How could those marines conduct themselves so well when their captain was neglecting them so badly? He had never encountered a crew of sailors who tolerated ill-treatment from a Post-Captain with any sort of grace. The difference in uniform and loyalty? Or simply a long-held immunity to poor treatment? It was hard to say with any certainty. Perhaps it didn't matter. A sigh hummed past his lips and he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples wearily. At least he count rely on his own officers without reservation.

Footsteps outside the door announced Collins' arrival. Another meeting with the Captain of Marines, another discussion that could only end in raised voices and heated words. The Commodore straightened his back as the marine officer entered, striving to conceal his surprise at Collins' orderly appearance. Had he had enough of wallowing in self-pity? Norrington certainly hoped so, if only for the sake of his own nerves. Taking a moment to compose his words, he studied the Yorkshireman. His face was clean-shaven, his queue was neatly tied, and his scarlet coatee bore the marks of a fresh scrubbing. Even the silver gorget around his neck was polished. Good.

Of course, if the man had snapped himself out of his funk, what Norrington was about to say would be all that much harder to take. Damn. "Take a chair, Major." Might as well get it over with.

Outside the door, Corporal Hancock suppressed a sigh.

* * *

The column of marines marching up the hill to the fort under Sergeant Devlin's gruff cadence were greeted by a sombre-faced Colour-Sergeant Crawford. Surprised at the unusual reception, Devlin halted the column and turned it over to the Colour-Sergeant. In an uncharacteristically thick voice, Crawford guided the column to the crest of the hill and through the gates, past the watchful gazes of the marines and sailors on the walltops. At the head of the column, Lieutenant Forsythe felt a cold shiver course down his spine. Something felt wrong. Colour-Sergeant Crawford had barely saluted him when he'd taken command of the returning companies. It wasn't like the man at all. Glancing at Cartwright, riding beside him, he saw a confused expression on the Londoner's face that matched his own.

"Take charge, Lieutenant," Forsythe said briskly, spurring his mount into a canter. The Navy officers had remained behind while the marines were ferried ashore, leaving the red-coats to return in defeat, in their own way. Whether a gesture of respect or arrogance, Forsythe didn't know. _Or care to._ Captain Collins had been ordered to remain aboard Dauntless to oversee the taking on of fresh provisions with the boatswain and his mate. Given his odd behaviour during the short hunt, it was little wonder that the Commodore wanted to keep him contained. Forsythe drew rein as he reached the main building, dismounting easily and handing the reins to a sailor who appeared from the shaded archway.

"Where is Lieutenant Forster?"

The marine standing outside the large doorway blinked slowly. "At th' church, sah."

_The church?_ Forsythe nodded curtly and strode off toward the small stone building. He had never figured Forster as the church-going sort. But then, he hardly knew the fellow, new to the battalion as Forster was. Something _had_ to have happened. There were more marines milling about in front of the hospital than he could ever recall seeing, some with bandages as a sign of their involvement in the failed efforts to catch Blackburn while the bastard had been loose in town. The men saluted him as he passed, but there was a hollowness in their movements, a shadow of deep emotion flickering behind their blank expressions. Forsythe hurried past them, unable to bear the feeling of unease he got from the men.

His shoes sent echoes of noise through the small church as he entered and for a moment he froze, briefly afraid that he was intruding upon some silent conversation. Forster was sitting on one of the pews at the very front of the room and Forsythe took care to step quietly as he approached.

"You're back already, sir?" Forster asked without moving. The acting-captain stopped, blinking in surprise. How had the man known who was coming up behind him?

"Yes. Commodore's orders."

"Don't suppose you've heard already, then."

"Heard what?"

Forster gave a deep sigh and glanced over at the other lieutenant, as Forsythe joined him on the pew. "We lost another. Sergeant Myles died six days after you left. Fighting that infection the whole way."

_God._ Forsythe stared down at his hands. No wonder Crawford had looked so out of sorts. He and Myles had been good mates. _Them and Branning._ Christ, the poor bastard had almost nobody left now, except for Devlin. "I hadn't heard. Bloody shame, he was a good sergeant."

"Aye." Forster replied, his normally cheerful voice a mere whisper. Neither of them spoke for several minutes, each entertaining their own thoughts and memories of the fallen sergeant. Outside the church, the dull, ordered stamp of feet marked the arrival of the marines from _Dauntless_. Colour-Sergeant Crawford's work. The soft murmur of voices began outside as the one hundred and twenty-something marines dispersed to file past Myles' grave and offer brief tokens of respect.

"How are the other lads faring?"

"Well enough. I doubt you've caught that bastard so soon!" Forster's voice dripped bitterness and he stood abruptly. "It was too much to hope in the first place, eh?"

"Lieutenant."

The other lieutenant halted, halfway to the door. Forsythe rose slowly. "I shall need your input on a matter, in approximately an hour's time. My office. Lieutenant Cartwright and Colour-Sergeant Crawford are to attend as well. Pass the word."

"Aye sir." Forster's eyes were downcast as he turned back toward the door.

"And Thomas. My sympathies. I know Sergeant Myles was one of your lads."

"_Sir._" The stamp of Forster's heels against the flagstone echoed within the church long after he had gone. It was nearly half an hour before Forsythe felt steady enough to move from the spot he had been standing and he avoided the graveyard adjacent to the church, with its grim, white-painted crosses. Names and dates of death of men he had known, too many in far too short a time.

* * *

All the officers were assembled when he finally arrived at Forsythe's office. Bloody marvellous. Colour-Sergeant Crawford paused after closing the door to stifle a belch. He felt like rubbish, and probably looked like rubbish as well. In the days after Myles' death, he had hardly mustered enough motivation to see to his marines, let alone himself. Two days without shaving gave his cheeks a slightly darker hue than normal, and there were dark circles hanging under his eyes from lack of sleep. All the brandy didn't help that. _Sod it all._ It wasn't as if any of those bloody officers knew half of what it was like to lose a close mate anyway.

"Sorry I'm late, sir," Crawford grunted, tossing up a half-hearted salute at Forsythe. Bloody Irishman. How he'd managed to make second-in-command over a solid sort like the previous first lieutenant was beyond him.

Forsythe lifted an eyebrow as he took in the slightly dishevelled state of Crawford's uniform. Thankfully he chose not to address it and said instead, "Take a chair, Colour-Sergeant."

Crawford sat, taking care to give his coat-tails a flick. At least he would give the impression of a proper gentleman, even if he didn't feel anything like one. "Wot's this about, sir?"

"A hunting party, of sorts. An entire squad's worth strong. Preferably a mixture of marines and sailors. We need your input on which marines would be best suited for the mission."

"Wot sorta huntin' party d'you mean, sir?"

At this, Forsythe glanced over at the single Navy lieutenant present. For guidance? Crawford suppressed a snort as the marine officer replied "To wander the docks of Tortuga, waiting for Blackburn and his companions to turn up."

"They'd all be fit fer it, sir. Every bloody last one of them," Crawford said without hesitation. "Hell I'll go meself, if there's a chance of layin' hands on Blackburn."

"Unfortunately, only marines from _Interceptor_ would not be recognised on the spot by Blackburn and his companions. Only men from that detachment can be permitted to go." Cartwright interjected, and Crawford couldn't keep his lip from curling slightly. What did that fool Londoner know about that? He and Forsythe were probably sucking each other's arses anyway. That would explain the glances the two officers were exchanging. Crawford swallowed another belch and wished he could scratch the sudden itch on his shoulder.

"And wot d'you need from me then?"

"Advice. Suggestions. Your thoughts on who would be best suited for this task."

Crawford scowled. He got the feeling that he was being played by that goat-faced Irishman and he didn't like it. "I hardly know the lads assigned to Interceptor, sir. They're - _were_ - Sarn't Myles' detachment." The Colour-Sergeant couldn't resist a sneer. "Reckon he'd be the one to ask, sir!"

"Mind your tongue, Colour-Sergeant, or I'll have you removed!" Forster burst out, coming to his feet. "You're already out of - "

"Sit down, Lieutenant," Forsythe said quietly, keeping his gaze on Crawford. The Colour-Sergeant shifted uncomfortably under the steady scrutiny and looked down at his hands. What else was going on here, other than this supposed interrogation? Had the officers been bickering amongst themselves before his arrival?

" 'Pologies sir."

"What men do you recommend for this task, Colour-Sergeant? Certainly you have at least a couple candidates in mind."

Here Crawford looked up again, feeling defeated. That bastard was relentless. How was he supposed to suggest men for a mission that he himself would not be permitted to participate in? It felt wrong, somehow. But, what choice did he have? "Corporal Johnson to lead 'em, sir. Wicklow, Higgins, and Springfield with him. The others..." he gave a half-hearted shrug. "You'd have to ask them fer others, I din't know the _Interceptor_'s lads that well."

"Forster?"

The willowy lieutenant nodded stiffly and got back to his feet. "I'll send a man round to fetch them."

Crawford resumed staring at his hands, wishing they didn't tremble so. Thus far, the Navy lieutenant had held his silence, but as Forster strode toward the door, he said, "Are you sure of these men, Colour-Sergeant? We need only the most reliable for this."

"I'd not suggest 'em if they weren't, sir. Any one of the lads'd be fer it if they was asked." He felt his skin begin to prickle, the first hint that he was going to be ill very soon. "I've got to see after Myles' personal effects, sir. The lads're havin' an auction fer 'em in the barrack. Be there fer the rest of the day if I'm needed agin." The Colour-Sergeant was quick to salute as he hurried for the door, nearly bowling over Forster as the lieutenant was returning. He ignored the officer's calls after him, walking as quickly as he dared toward the courtyard outside.

A marine passing by only shook his head sadly as he saw his Colour-Sergeant fall to his knees outside the large building and empty the contents of his stomach onto the ground. The garrison's marines knew enough to let the man have his space. At length, Crawford mustered enough strength to lurch to his feet. He looked and felt like death but he owed it to Myles to look after the coins that would be gained from the sale of his effects. He had a shilling or two to add to the prize himself. _For whatever family he left back in England._ Sighing, Crawford pushed all thoughts of the cock-and-bull plot those officers had concocted. It wouldn't catch Blackburn. The bastard was too slippery, he knew too many of the marines.

" 'Ey, Colour-Sarn't. Got a shillin' to spare fer Sarn't Myles' coffer?"

Crawford fished three coins from the small pouch he kept tucked in his breeches and handed them to the round-faced marine. "The lads takin' it well?"

"Well as they did Sarn't Branning's," the marine replied, and carried on toward the guardhouse. Crawford suppressed a shudder. Truth be told, he despised the idea of sending any marines to Tortuga, in guise or not. Blackburn wasn't worth foolishly risking men's lives. _Not when he's cost so many already._ His stomach folded over and he wretched, emptying what little was left in his stomach a second time. This time a marine saw him and sprinted toward him, succeeding in catching the light-headed Colour-Sergeant before he could collapse. Other red-coats were quick to pound over the sun-baked ground to help and as they half-carried, half-dragged him toward the hospital, Crawford recalled distantly that he had not taken a proper meal since Myles had died.

Maybe that was why he had just openly disgraced himself. And why he did not care.


	12. Changes

It's been a long time, sorry. My story muse has been very rebellious.

* * *

Although it was only his second visit to Tortuga, James felt a good deal more comfortable setting foot on the island. Of coure, MacFarlane, Yardley, Pintel, and Ragetti were with him. The former marine was glad for their presence. They were far more used to rowdy taverns than he. If trouble arose, they could handle it. Not that he would stand idly by and let them have all the fun! His sword, once belonging to Corporal Southerland, hung reassuringly at his hip. The other men were similarly armed. MacFarlane and Yardley, he noted, wore their sailors' knives as well. Habit, most likely.

"C'mon Twig!" Ragetti called out as the others were entereing the nearest tavern. James felt his face grow warm. He hadn't realised that he'd falled behind. In the wild streets of Tortuga, being caught alone meant certain trouble.

MacFarlane was sidling up to a well-filled-out barmaid as James entered the crowded tavern, close on Ragetti's heels. Yardley and Pintel were in the process of shoving away a pair of passed-out drunks from a table, thus claiming it for themselves. Their two companions joined them quickly, pleased at finding a table so easily. A barmaid was not long in coming round to place full mugs in front of the four men. As James lifted the heavy vessel to his lips, he found his gaze lingering on the barmaid's ample bosom, quite visible as she bustled about. There was something quite alluring about the way the girl filled out her simple dress. A foolish grin came onto his face, which he quickly hide behind his mug. He was woefully inexperienced in dealing with barmaids and wenches.

An elbow dug into his ribs. "Best be careful 'ow yew stare, Twig. Sum o' them barmaids gots sharp tongues and daggers!" Ragetti warned sagely, elicitng a laugh from his mate Pintel.

" 'E's right mate. That one 'specially."

James' face flushed hot and he dropped his gaze to the heavily-scarred table top. There was a lot more to learn than he'd first thought. A scraping thud caught his attention and he looked up to see MacFarlane dragging a chair over to join them, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"Well me lads, wot's the doin's?"

Ragetti elbowed James roughly, a wolfish grin on his face. "Twig 'ere's jus' about t'tell us why 'e went mad on them damn marines."

He was? James stared at Ragetti in disbelief, not sure why the man was interested in such a topic. It was far too complicated to be related over mugs of rum in a noisy tavern. "I don't really think - "

"C'mon, Twig, we wants to know! You was on'y wiv 'em fer two years. Gotta be somethin' more t'the tale than jes' a bit o' 'arsh words."

"Aye, let's 'ear it. Bad as them red-coats is, they ain't so rough as to make a lad break," Pintel chimed in. James looked around at the eager faces, pausing as he saw MacFarlane start to grin. That bastard had opened his gob.

"You put 'em onto it, din't you?"

MacFarlane only offered a smug grin as he stuffed a pinch of tobacco into his cheek. Sighing, James took a long pull from his mug. There wasn't any way out of relating the story of his entire bloody life. _Damn you MacFarlane._ He didn't want any of it known, least of all to these men. It was bad enough that he'd lived it once, and to have to go through it all again by retelling the miserable story...

"C'mon, out wivvit."

James gave in with a sigh, his shoulders sagging. "Fine, y'want the tale? It ain't a happy one or short, but I ain't tellin' all o' it. Surrey lads, least the ones wot grew up in the wood-camps, ain't nice lads. Maybe 'cause o' all the lumbermen about, but there ain't a soft lad anywheres. Even the wee ones carry themselves like proper ruffians. There's this one lad called Thomas, meanest-spirted blackguard in the place. Skinnin' fieldmouses an' puppies was his favourite, when he wasn't peelin' the hide off younger lads." The Surreyman paused, forcing himself to shrug nonchalantly. "Got a few scars meself. Been called Twig fer years, started with that lot, usually when they was lookin' fer another bit of hide. Reckon that was the spark wot lit the fire."

It was as much as he intended to say on the subject, but it appeared to be plenty. Ragetti and Pintel were staring at him with expressions nearing something like pity - which James found difficult to believe was an emotion either man capable of displaying - while Yardley, MacFarlane's mate, had taken an interest in a fly buzzing round the table. Only MacFarlane appeared unruffled by the story. Feeling uncomfortable with the revelation he'd just made, James finished the last of his rum and stood up. The evening had been quite ruined for him.

"I'm goin' back to the ship. Feelin' a touch weary."

"Aw, Twig - " Ragetti began, then caught himself, realising he'd used the nickname that James had come to hate so. "Sorry mate, din't mean to - "

The Surreyman shrugged. "S'all right, I knows you don't mean it harsh. Have a good evenin', lads." He hurried from the tavern before any of them could voice more objections. Inwardly, he cursed MacFarlane for giving them the idea to ask about that, it was not something he cared to have known. Bit late for all that, he thought bitterly.

Surprisingly, he made the journey back to _Dolpin_ without incident. With a nod to the deck-guard, he descended to the gun deck and wasted little time hanging his hammock. Only once he was safely cocooned in his hammock and with his face buried in the rough blanket that he took care to drape over him, did he allow himself to weep the bitter tears that had been welling up over time.

* * *

"C'mon, me boyos, shift yerselves! This ain't no kinda pensioner's reunion!"

Marines grunted and sweated, hauling heavy barrels of provisions up the gangplank to the sloop that would bear them to Tortuga. They had shed their distinctive scarlet coats in exchange for the more drab colours of loose-fitting sailors' slops and many had chosen to forego shoes for simple bare feet. The handful of sailors who would be sailing with them stood off to the side, intently listening to a summary of their task being given by one of _Dauntless_' boatswain's mates and the coxswain from the lost _Interceptor_. On the other side of the waterfront, preparations were likewise underway as final stores were loaded onto _Dauntless_' cutter to be rowed across to the second-rate. Commodore Norrington had been quite insistent that _Dauntless_ should return to sea as soon as possible and he had been given his way.

Corporal Cross Johnson, a man strangely if fittingly named, paced up and down the dock, glaring at marines who slowed slightly or appeared to be dawdling. The seven marines he had been given for the voyage toiled silently under his fierce gaze, unwilling to provoke him to temper. He had fairly burst with delight when he received the news that he and part of his section were to sail for that pirates' haven to hunt down the three deserters. The Hampshire native heartily looked forward to the reknown that would come when he and his marines caught the murdering traitor Blackburn.

"Everythin's aboard, Corporal," a heavily-perspiring face appeared before him, belonging to the Irishman Wicklow. Nodding crisply, Johnson turned away to seek out the boatswain's mate who would be in charge of the sailors going with them. The man was still standing with his sailors, entertaining what few questions that he had been told he could answer.

"Whenever yer done bumpin' yer gums, then!" Johnson called out, irritated that the Tars had stood by and allowed the marines to do all the work themselves. His encouragement thus delivered, the corporal strode briskly up the gangplank, joining his marines on the main deck. Thankfully, they had not formed up into to neat lines as was their hard-learned habit. Instead they lounged about the deck and were apparently glad for the necessary lack of the normal routine.

After a delay, the sailors ambled aboard and set about the task of guiding the sloop away from the dock. Rutland, the coxswain, cast a withering glare at Johnson as he assumed his place at the ship's wheel. Neither man cared much for the other and had not since their first meeting aboard _Interceptor_. Neither had been pleased at all to learn they were to be forced into close company again.

"Hurry up lads, sooner we're clear the bay sooner we're at our ease!"

Robbins the boatswain's mate, at least, had the willing respect of his sailors, whereas Johnson's marines respected him only because he held rank. An ocean's difference and already showing itself. The marines stirred to life as the sloop glided toward open water, moving to help the sailors with their various tasks. Annoyed but determined not to show it, Johnson stomped up to the foc's'le to watch _Dauntless_ carry on her own preparations in the distance.

Aboard the second-rate, the last barrels were being hauled aboard. Gillette watched the proceedings with a keen eye, standing as he was at the starboard poop deck rail. Captain Collins had done a surprisingly smart job of overseeing the bulk of the work while the rest of the officers were ashore, and the marine officer now stood quietly on the leeward side of the deck. It was hard not to wonder at the abrupt change in the man's demeanor. To so suddenly snap out of his funk and become the quick and able officer he was known to be? Most puzzling. Gillette made a note to enquire about the bizarre change from Lieutenant Forsythe, who was most likely to know the cause of it.

"Nearly done, Lieutenant?"

"Aye sir. Another ten minutes at the most," Gillette answered, touching the birm of his hat at the Commodore's approach. "There goes the sloop."

Across the bay, a sloop was making her way to open sea. The hunting party bound for Tortuga. Norrington nodded slightly, turning his steady gaze to his first lieutenant. "They will have luck in their hunt, I'm sure. Has Major Collins spoken of anything within your earshot?"

"Sir?" Spoken of anything?

"His... behaviours. Or anything relating to them." The Commodore hesitated, glancing pointedly at the marine officer and lowering his voice. "I am somewhat uneasy with the sudden change."

Gillette looked sharply at his superior, unused to hearing him speak so plainly about anything that personal, and in a public way no less. "I haven't the slightest idea, sir."

Futher speech was rendered unnecessary by the timely appearance of Matheson the boatswain. The ruddy-faced older sailor knuckled his brow and waited respectfully for leave to speak. Norrington gave a nod, effortlessly sliding back into the facade of cool detachment that he had perfected.

"Stores are all aboard sir. The lads are lashin' down the lot below. Shouldn't be too much longer 'fore we're ready."

"Thank you, Mister Matheson. Give the word to weigh anchor as soon as all the stores are secure. You know the routine."

"Aye sir." Matheson was gone again, his signature rattan cane in hand. The two officers remained silent as they observed the taking-aboard of the cutter. All in keeping with routine, though Gillette sensed an undercurrent of excitement in the crew's movements. They knew they were returning to the hunt and to a man were eager for it.

The shrill notes of All Hands rang out, followed up immediately by Matheson's gruff roar of "Fore-noon watch aloft, off-watch man the capstan! Idlers to yer duties!"

Feet drummed over the deck as the ship's Company sprang to its tasks. On the poop deck, Norrington and Gillette were joined by Captain Somersby, who was fairly beaming with relief at being off to sea again. Gillette noted that Collins had drifted toward the larboard rail and was gazing toward the distant fort. Perhaps he was not so free of the disquiet plaguing him as he let on. It was something to ponder at a later time, for the Commodore had moved toward the stairs leading to the quarter deck.

"I would like to see all officers in my cabin once we are clear of the bay."

"Aye sir," Somersby answered, his round, open face losing a touch of its happy glow. _Dauntless_' master said nothing of his thoughts however and was quick to assume the mantle of command as the Commodore retired to his cabin. Would this hunt prove more fruitful than the first? Gillette hoped so, if only to bring about a return to the normal state of things. The unruffled, predictable existence that he both chafed at and welcomed.

Another scarlet coat appeared on the poop deck, belonging to Lieutenant Forsythe. The likeness between the marine's relationship with his captain was not very much removed from Gillette's with his own superior, though he was hardly providing the bulk of leadership in the Commodore's stead, as was Forsythe for Collins. A shame, he thought. Forsythe was an able enough officer, though just a shade unready for the enormous weight of command that had been forced upon him. It was hardly fair, but precious little in the service was.

Overhead, canvas rustled as the freshening breeze caught the close-reefed sails. Sailors still in the yards called to one another, sharing the rush of excitement that came with nearing open sea. Dauntless was nearly clear of the confines of the bay, her great anchor slowly sliding up from the depths. The hands heaving at the capstan were half-way finished with their work. Gillette's features softened almost imperceptibly. He was glad to be sailing again as well.

* * *

As previously agreed, the two men met in the same noisy tavern as they had during Toby's last visit. Toby had arrived first and took advantage of the time by helping himself to full mug of rum and the attentions of his favourite barmaid. When Gibbs turned up, however, the girl made herself scarce and the two set down to business.

"So, Blackburn. How's he turned out?"

"Well 'nuff. 'E'll get 'long wiv yer lads all right. Can't 'ave 'im aboard no more anyways, 'e's a 'uge risk," Toby answered, pleased they were not wasting time with idle pleasantries. "Scotchy donnae like it, but that's 'is issue. I wants 'im off me ship, an' 'oo better t'take 'im than Sparrow?"

Gibbs gave a restless shrug. "True enough, Jack's got a reputation all his own. One more lad with a black mark against him comin' aboard won't bother Jack. When are ye sailin' again?"

"First light, ain't waitin' about 'ere when I c'n lead the bloody Navy on a wee merry chase 'round the Caribbean. Figger tha'll set yew and yer boss right fer a safe 'scape."

"Aye, that'll please the Cap'n. Where's the boy at now?"

"Out wiv the lads. Scotchy, Toms, Rags, an' Pintel is wiv 'im. Reckon they'll be proper outta it wivvin a couple 'ours. Best time t'take Blackburn aboard's then."

A bushy eyebrow arched curiously, "You're really keen to be rid of the lad. What's wrong with him?"

"Uvver than 'e's a deserter an' a 'unted murderer? Nuffin's _wrong_ wiv 'im, 'e's just... a wee bit dumb." Toby took a healthy pull from his mug and shrugged. "Way've I 'eared it, 'e wudden't've made it off Port Royal wivvout Scotchy 'elpin' 'im."

"Dumb, you say?"

"Aye, 'e's not all tha' bright, is Blackburn. But 'e's a fair sailor. Counts fer summat, I s'pose."

Gibbs' gaze drifted down to the scarred tabletop before him and he considered the matter for a moment. Another sailor was certainly needed aboard the _Black Pearl_, though he was hesitant to take on a lad who was so desperately pursued by the Navy. After a long silence, he looked up again and rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "Aye, I'll take him on. We'll fetch him now, though, less fuss than later."

"Fair 'nuff. They was goin' to a place just round the corner." _Dolphin_'s master finished his drink in a long swallow and rose, winking roguishly at the barmaid he had been entertaining earlier. "I'll be back, me dear, save yew some time fer me!"

* * *

Footsteps on the deck brought him awake with a start, and for a moment he thought the others were back from the tavern already. He began to sit up in his hammock to call out to them when a hand clapped over his mouth and he was pulled roughly from his hammock. Startled but instinctively fighting back as best he could, James saw a brief flash of a face in the dim light of a nearby lantern, then he was pinned to the deck. The harsh fibers of a rope wound around his wrists and a panic raced through him. He'd been discovered somehow and his assailants were marines come to drag him off to a slow death by musket butt and shoe heel.

" 'Urry up, the lads'll be back 'fore long!"

That was Toby's voice! Hot fury rushed through him and he resumed his struggling against the restraining hands on his shoulders and arms. His teeth found the grimy palm over his mouth and the hand's owner gave a pained howl, jerking the wounded appendage away.

"_Bastard!_" James cried. "An' ya call _me_ a traitor! _Bastard!_ May you rot in - "

A boot collided with the back of his head and stars burst across his vision. Dazed by the blow, James fell silent and limp, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the painful shards of lantern light that danced amid the shadows of the gun deck. He was hoisted up from the deck and slung roughly over someone's shoulder, swiftly being borne topside. The movement was jarring to his already-throbbing head but he had not the energy or clarity of thought to put up any further resistance.

Voices hummed around him, exchanging comments in hushed tones that he could not make out. Even if he had wanted to, James found it impossible to look around. His head and face were half-buried in the back of a rather smelly shirt and he dared not guess the last time his captor had bothered to change his clothes. Or what he had rolled in to produce such a stink. More voices came near but faded away again just as quickly and the brain-jarring movement continued. Where the hell were they going?

Suddenly, his hearing returned and the buzzing he had been sensing became distinguishable words. Toby's voice was droning on, about payment or something of that nature, and James began listening intently.

"... no less than three pounds fer 'im, Gibbs, an' I ain't movin' off tha'!"

Gibbs. He knew that name. Where from, he could not work out, the ringing inside his head persisted too strongly. All he could tell for sure was he was being sold, like a worthless side of meat to the highest bidder, and the thought made him bitterly angry. _Where's MacFarlane when I need him?_ He really should have stayed in that damn tavern.

Without warning, the man carrying him stopped and set him down. Caught unawares by the unexpected action, James sagged to the ground, only to be dragged back to his feet by Toby's rough grip. "Stan' up, yer abowt t'meet yer new cap'n."

Still feeling slightly dizzy, James peered into the darkness and made out the outline of a ship, rising and falling gently on the whispering tide. At length, a shadow detached itself from the quarter deck and moved toward the gangplank, its gait a little unsteady, as though affected by too much drink. _Who the hell have I been sold to?_

A new voice came then, from nearby. "Gotta a new sailor fer us, Cap'n."

"Bring him aboard then," the shadow instructed, moving into the faint, flickering glow cast by the lantern hanging from a post on the dock. James was struck by the many beads that decorated the man's hair and how they clinked rhythmically together as the man walked. If one could call it walking, anyway. Toby's hand came against James' back, propelling him up the gangplank. Minding his step so as to not fall into the harbour, James reached the main deck and there stopped, refusing to go any farther.

"Where am I?" The Surreyman demanded, aware that his hands were still firmly bound behind him, rendering him enitrely defenceless.

The unsteady man gave a smile. "Welcome aboard the _Black Pearl_."


	13. Quarrels and Arrivals

Again, it's been a long time. Again, my apologies. I'm trying to lessen the hang-time between chapters, I promise.

* * *

The deck was warm underneath him. He twitched in his sleep and one foot flexed unconsciously. Around him, the others who'd been in the taverns with him were sprawled in similar positions on the deck. Their evening of revelry had sapped them of money and energy, the latter resulting in their present state. The copious amounts of rum contributed heavily as well. Samuel twitched again and this time came awake enough to yawn before rolling back onto his stomach. He was asleep again within moments but it wasn't to last long.

" 'Ands up, c'mon y'bleedin' loafers, I letcha sleep more'n long 'nuff, gerrup, rouse up!"

The sleeping men on the weather deck stirred. Samuel was the first to awaken fully, or at least enough to flop over onto his back and yawn. There was somebody standing close by, casting a shadow where the sun should have been... the Scotsman draped his arm across his eyes as a shield against the mid-morning sun and called out groggily, "Quit yer 'owlin', we ain't lef' docks yet."

"There's work t'do, gerrup," Billy Smith said again, nudging Samuel in the ribs with his foot. "Same fer the resta yew, gerrup an' be useful."

Pintel shifted himself up into an almost-sitting position, rubbing at his temple and yawning. "What's the use in bein'... hey, we ain't in Tortuga no more!"

_That_ got the rest of them roused. Every man lurched to his feet, peering blearily at the glittering sea that stretched out all around. Samuel turned on Billy Smith, not bothering to hide his anger. "The 'ell ya playin' at, puttin' t'sea wit'out rousin' the entire crew?"

Billy shrugged. "Better not 'aving 'nuff sailors than drunk ones, 'andlin' sail."

"Oi," Ragetti cut in. "Where's Twig?"

The four of them turned toward Billy Smith, who suddenly looked uneasy. Samuel advanced a step and said "Check below, Pintel."

They waited while the bald man hurried down the ladder, Samuel and Ragetti eyeing Billy warily. Toby Smith was nowhere in sight but that was not wholly unusual. He often retired to his cabin around mid-day. Some of the other sailors were gathering around, which was adding to Billy's distress. Pintel reappeared on deck, his chubby face dark with disbelief. "He's not down there!"

There was an instant, discontented grumble from the sailors. Samuel took a fistful of Billy's shirt and favoured him with a sour glare. "Wot've ya done wit' Twig then?" The other men closed around them, looking vengeful.

"Blackburn's now crewin' wit' the _Black Pearl_," a rough voice boomed. It was Toby Smith, standing with his beefy arms crossed over his chest and a blank expression on his face. "Weren't safe 'avin' 'im aboard so 'e's gone off."

" 'Orse dung," Samuel snarled, releasing Billy and looking about to leap at Toby instead. "Slimy blaggerd, 'e trusted ya!"

Only the rasp of a sword being drawn stopped the Scotsman's advance. Toby returned Samuel's furious glare without flinching. "I do as I gotta fer me ship, sure yew oughta know tha' by now, Scotchy. Now git t'work, like yew was tol', or there'll be narsty 'appenins 'ere'bouts."

The crew reluctantly dispersed, throwing sullenly angry looks at Billy and Toby as they drifted away to other parts of the ship. Samuel was the last to go and he spat at Billy's feet before swinging up onto the shrouds. He was halfway aloft by the time that Billy found himself able to move again.

"Tha' 'un'll bear watchin'," Toby commented blithely, sheathing his sword and turning away to return to his cabin. His face briefly reflecting his own disgust, Billy tramped below deck. It never did any good to argue with Toby, especially not after being publicly challenged by one of his own crew. Billy only hoped that getting rid of Blackburn would turn out to be the best choice, otherwise there would be more scenes like the one that had just played out.

_Dolphin_ sailed south from Tortuga, following a hunch on Toby's part. He wanted to draw _Dauntless_ into another pursuit around the Caribbean, since he was now free of the liability that Blackburn had presented. The allure of taunting the Navy was too much to resist, even for him.

* * *

"There it is, boys," Rutland said, his voice flat with distaste. The crew gathered reluctantly on the foc's'le, studying their destination with varying degrees of unease. Being so close to Tortuga - and so far away from any hope of Navy aid if something should go wrong - made them uncomfortable. There were ships everywhere, both at anchor in the bay and tied up to docks close to shore. Rutland, in surveying the crowded harbour, chose a likely spot to drop anchor. As long as they were far enough away from other ships, he supposed they would do all right.

"Blimey but 'tis a nasty-lookin' place," one of the marines muttered. The others grunted agreement.

"Let's be about it, lads. Hands aloft to take in sail, but don't be sharp about it!" Robbins called out and the men scattered, seamen going up the shrouds while the marines went to the tackles and stays. At the helm, Rutland rolled a plug of tobacco to the other side of his mouth and shook his head. When Robbins came ambling aft, the coxswain favoured him with an unhappy look.

"This'll be a neat trick, to not get spotted fer bein' Navy."

Robbins shrugged. "We'll manage. Ain't much different than pluckin' a couple lads outta some brothel. Only trouble is the waitin' and watchin'."

Neither man spoke after that, until the sloop had nosed her way into the harbour as far as Rutland was comfortable. The anchors splashed down into the sparkling water and the longboat was swayed out to send the first group of men ashore. Robbins was taking four seamen and three marines with him, with no-nonsense directions from Rutland to begin searching taverns and avoid trouble at all costs. As the seamen pulled at the oars, Robbins found himself playing with the hilt of his sword. He didn't like not having the reassurance of _Dauntless_' guns and her crew close by. At least the marines, dressed plainly in sailors' slops, appeared at ease. But then, he figured they were more used to being sent ashore with little in the way of reinforcements.

"Bowman - " Robbins caught himself just before giving the orders he was so accustomed to. A shiver went through him. He had to be very careful what he said and did, to avoid giving the appearance of being a Navy man. Chase, the bowman, needed no urging to jump to his tasks, however. The nimble able seaman sprang up onto the dock and had the longboat's mooring lines tied off securely by the time the rest of the boat crew had clambered up onto the dock.

"Good luck tryin' to find anybody in this rat's hole," Webber grumbled, looking around.

One of the marines, Springfield, scratched himself nonchalantly. "Nothin' to worry about, us lads'll track the rats down. Now what about some food?"

The group drifted toward the street, after leaving two men to guard the longboat. There were people, mostly men, everywhere. Nearly all were in differing states of drunkenness, it seemed. Here and there were women in well-worn dresses, obviously the working girls who called the port home. Taverns, it quickly became apparent, were literally everywhere. Springfield the marine wrinkled his nose in disgust as a rather rotund man waddled past, stinking heavily of something that defied description.

"Blimey, ain't anybody 'round here ever heard of washin'?"

One of the seamen chuckled quietly. "They ain't got the bosun after 'em constant-like fer it, s'why."

"This way, lads," Robbins directed, having chosen a likely-looking tavern to begin their search. Hesitating only a little, the seamen filed after him into the place and almost at once moved as a group toward the closest unoccupied table. Almost immediately after dropping into a chair, a second marine called Durham scratched irritably at the stubble on his face.

"All this not shavin' rubbish ain't right," he grumbled in annoyance. "I don't like havin' whiskers!"

"Hush!" Robbins hissed as a barmaid came bustling over. The men ordered drinks, their voices slightly more dull than they might've been, had they been in a normal Port Royal tavern. With one or two exceptions, none of the men who'd been sent to Tortuga were bothering to shave. It was considered important to avoid the appearance of being too clean and tidy, much to the marines' grumbling chargin.

The barmaid reappeared with a tray laden with tankards. Robbins nodded gratefully at her when she'd finished handing them out and, as he fished in a pocket of his coat for coins, asked casually, "Pardon miss, but wouldja know anythin' 'bout a sloop called _Dolphin_?"

His question wiped the easy, glib smile off the girl's face. She looked the group over almost warily and did not reply immediately. As they had previously discussed, several men looked expectant, as if Robbins's question was perfectly natural. Robbins himself leaned back slightly in his chair and quirked an eyebrow at the girl, pointedly keeping the coins meant to pay for their drinks clenched in his fist.

"Ain't heard of no ship like that," the barmaid said finally. Her denial of knowledge was contradicted by curtness of her answer and the glint of suspicion in her expression.

"Ah come now," Robbins said, casually dropping a single coin onto the table. "I reckon you hear a lot 'round this place. We ain't lookin' to put no harm to _Dolphin_'s cap'n, are we boys?" The other men shook their heads.

The barmaid shifted uneasily. "I dunno him."

Another coin went clunk onto the table. The barmaid's eyes darted to the two coins, then back up to Robbins's face. His air of calm never slipping, the boatswain's mate offered a brief smile. "Sure a fair lass like yourself don't just have a pretty face, I reckon you got a good ol' mind in your head too. I likes a lass with a brain, y'know. Good company an' all."

Around the table, the other sailors began to grin as the barmaid visibly wilted. Robbins's calm, relentless manner had won out, with the help of the coins - now numbering three - on the table. The barmaid looked around for a moment before leaning down close. "I seen _Dolphin_'s captain not three days past..."

* * *

His hat looked like no more useful than a great black felt paperweight, balanced atop a stack of papers on the wardroom table as it was. He was meant to be working, assembling a revised list of the marines aboard ship. The shipboard detachment needed to be re-organised, in light of the losses and the marines away on the Tortuga mission. That was leaving out all of the other bits of reports and watch bills that he had to go through. One long finger stretched slowly out and tapped absently against the corner of a piece of parchment. Instead of working, however, he was contemplating something far less pleasant.

"And yet you saw fit to punish him on the spot, rather than follow the usual route?"

Lieutenant Forsythe's expression didn't even flicker. "Aye sir. I felt a swift and sure display of authority was more than called for. Especially given the state of morale and discipline of late."

"Discipline." Collins' narrow face clouded, just slightly. "I have seen no reason to be concerned for it, the men are marines and know very well how to conduct themselves."

Though the meeting was only a few minutes old, Forsythe could already tell that it was going to devolve swiftly into a disagreement. Cartwright wasn't present to help him, either.The Irishman willed himself to relax. Losing his temper would do nobody any shred of good.

"Marines they certainly are, sir, but they are also, as you say, men. Men who have lately endured trials that few others can fathom. They're shaken up, sir, and need a bit of firm guidance to remind them of their purpose."

Collins looked at him closely. " 'To remind them of their purpose'? What nonsense. The men know perfectly well their purpose - to carry on with their daily routines and be ready when the time comes for action. And by God that time will come soon, once we learn where that devil Blackburn is hiding!"

"That's all fine and well, sir, but to hear some of the men talk, the belief is easy to acquire that we shall never catch Blackburn or his accomplices," Forsythe countered. "Rumours, as you well know, sir, are extremely dangerous."

To his surprise, Collins smiled. "You are far too idealistic, Lieutenant. The men who might talk so freely are fools. There is no need for punishment unless the offence is truly severe. Certainly you know the difference between idle talk and true discontent, Lieutenant?"

"I do indeed, sir, but idle talk can very easily lead to true discontent. It was my belief that there was a danger and I did what was required to stop that danger before it could grow,"

"Would that your belief was shared," Collins said. "Publicly punishing marines as it suits you does little to improve their moods. The offence was not severe - late to musket drill, was it? That hardly constitutes a dip in morale. I had thought your judgment was more sound than that, or at least that you knew the men better."

Forsythe's face flushed hot. "You insult me, sir. I - "

"Be silent, if you please. Your interest in maintaining control of the men is admirable, but think on it more than a moment. We are aboard ship. There are precious few places for the men to go and plenty enough to keep them sufficiently busy, that they should not gossip over-much. You know that as well as I." The Yorkshireman's expression seemed to soften, just slightly. "As do the corporals. Leave the work of governance to them and Sergeant Devlin, unless they come to you."

"I am perfectly aware that Devlin and his corporals can manage their affairs, but when I bear witness to an offence, it is well within my rights to address it!"

"By needlessly embarrassing a man in front of the rest of the detachment and half the ship? That is no way to enforce discipline and improve morale, even if you think it is. There won't be another incident like this, Lieutenant, or I'll know the reason for it!"

The thud of shoes on the deck interrupted Forsythe before he could form an angry reply, which was just as well. Groves, the second lieutenant, appeared and paused at the sight of the two marines. "I'm not disturbing a party, am I?"

"No," Forsythe said shortly, rising from his chair. He left the wardroom without another word, his stride stiff and angry. Collins simply shrugged at Groves' questioning glance and didn't trouble himself to explain. Some things were better left unshared.


End file.
